University of Virginia Library

THE COTTAGER

True as the church clock hand the hour pursues
He plods about his toils & reads the news
& at the blacksmiths shop his hour will stand
To talk of “Lunun” as a foreign land
For from his cottage door in peace or strife
He neer went fifty miles in all his life
His knowledge with old notions still combined
Is twenty years behind the march of mind
He views new knowledge with suspicious eyes
& thinks it blasphemy to be so wise
Oer steams almighty tales he wondering looks
As witchcraft gleaned from old blackletter books
Life gave him comfort but denied him wealth
He toils in quiet & enjoys his health
He smokes a pipe at night & drinks his beer
& runs no scores on tavern screens to clear
He goes to market all the year about
& keeps one hour & never stays it out
Een at St Thomas tide old Rovers bark
Hails dapples trot an hour before its dark
He is a simple worded plain old man
Whose good intents take errors in their plan
Oft sentimental & with saddend vein
He looks on trifles & bemoans their pain
& thinks the angler mad & loudly storms
With emphasis of speech oer murdered worms
& hunters cruel—pleading with sad care
Pitys petition for the fox & hare
Yet feels self satisfaction in his woes
For wars crushed myriads of his slaughterd foes
He is right scrupelous in one pretext
& wholesale errors swallows in the next
He deems it sin to sing yet not to say
A song a mighty difference in his way
& many a moving tale in antique ryhmes
He has for christmass & such merry times
When Chevy chase his masterpiece of song
Is said so earnest none can think it long
Twas the old Vicars way who should be right
For the late Vicar was his hearts delight
& while at church he often shakes his head
To think what sermons the old vicar made
Downright orthodox that all the land
Who had their ears to hear might understand
But now such mighty learning meets his ears
He thinks it greek or latin which he hears
Yet church recieves him every sabbath day
& rain or snow he never keeps away
All words of reverence still his heart reveres
Low bows his head when Jesus meets his ears
& still he thinks it blasphemy as well
Such names without a capital to spell
In an old corner cupboard by the wall
His books are laid—though good in number small
His bible first in place—from worth & age
Whose grandsires name adorns the title page
& blank leaves once now filled with kindred claims
Display a worlds epitome of names
Parents & childern & grandchildern all
Memorys affections in the lists recall
& Prayer book next much worn though strongly bound
Proves him a churchman orthodox & sound
The “Pilgrims Progress” too & “Death of Abel”
Are seldom missing from his reading table
& prime old Tusser in his homely trim
The first of bards in all the world with him
& only poet which his leisure knows
—Verse deals in fancy so he sticks to prose
These are the books he reads & reads again
& weekly hunts the almanacks for rain
Here & no further learnings channels ran
Still neighbours prize him as the learned man
His cottage is a humble place of rest
With one spare room to welcome every guest
& that tall poplar pointing to the sky
His own hand planted when an idle boy
It shades his chimney while the singing wind
Hums songs of shelter to his happy mind
Within his cot the “largest ears of corn”
He ever found his picture frames adorn
Brave Granbys head De Grasses grand defeat
He rubs his hands & tells how Rodney beat
& from the rafters upon strings depend
Beanstalks beset with pods from end to end
Whose numbers without counting may be seen
Wrote on the Almanack behind the screen
Around the corner upon worsted strung
Pootys in wreaths above the cupboards hung
Memory at trifling incidents awakes
& there he keeps them for his childerns sakes
Who when as boys searched every sedgey lane
Traced every wood & shattered cloaths again
Roaming about on raptures easy wing
To hunt those very pooty shells in spring
& thus he lives too happy to be poor
While strife neer pauses at so mean a door
Low in the sheltered valley stands his cot
He hears the mountain storm—& feels it not
Winter & spring toil ceasing ere tis dark
Rests with the lamb & rises with the lark
Content is helpmate to the days employ
& care neer comes to steal a single joy
Time scarcely noticed turns his hair to grey
Yet leaves him happy as a child at play