Now, seated in his wicker chair,
The swain enjoys his homely fare:
His rosy children round him press,
Eager to share the fond caress;
And as his eyes delighted trace
Health and content in each dear face,
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He scarce desires a happier lot,
His toils unfelt, his cares forgot.
When supper ended,—grace was said,
The babes were bless’d, and sent to bed,