Had grac’d with rustic praise his name.
For many a year his village neighbours
Felt and confess’d his useful labours;
Swift flew his hours, on busy wing
Revolving in their rosy ring:
His life, alternate toil and rest,
Nor cares annoy’d, nor want oppress’d.
Whang’s mill, beside a sparkling brook,
Stood shelter’d in a wooded nook:
The stream, the willow’s whispering trees,