Who for a shilling, breakfast, dinner, tea,
And aught beside, go forth and work the day
At some farmhouse (or at the village priest’s),
Re-seating breeches, patching coats or vests.
And then the village cobbler drops his tool,
Throws down his spectacles, lifts from his stool
His grizzled visage; not o’er fond of trade,
(Who often vows he wish’d the pick and spade
Had been his implements of industry,
Instead of hemp and wax machinery,)