FARMER LAD.
Farmer lad, in the morning gray,
Blest may seem the town, and they,
Slumbering late, who, void of blame,
Seek at their leisure wealth and fame;
But how many there, thy race would run
To know thy rest when the day is done!
Farmer lad, when the herd’s faint bells
Clink far off o’er the sunburnt fells,
Better may seem the coin that calls
Ringing and bright from the town’s cool halls;
But how many there, would give all its gleams
For the golden light of thy guileless dreams!
Farmer lad, where the herd will drink
Waits a maid that bathes by the brink
Bare brown feet; and the rill, made sweet,
Thrills to touch her who thee would greet.
There is more for thee in the blue of her eye
Than in all the towns that are under the sky.