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;