The humble tradesman can retire,
If pleasure leads his mind;
Beside the wealthy farmer’s fire,
And gain attention kind.
The labouring poor will seldom part,
From those that him employ;
Good usage animates the heart,
And bitter thoughts destroy.
In the gay village all around,
A little cot you’ll find,
Behind it is the garden ground,
To please the tenants’ mind.
Seldom is rais’d the tasker’s cot,
Not often turn’d away;
No murmuring on his master’s spot,
He cheerful him obey.
The farmer’s wife the poor supply,
With barm and milk beside,
To do them good each other vie,
To serve them is their pride.
The humble and the wealthy sing
To Albion’s long success;
Good news for England pleasure bring,
And adverse gales distress.
Again on Page my humble strains,
With melancholy dwell;
To tell the grief and heart felt pains,
To bid a long farewell.
It’s gratitude that urge the pen,
It’s friendship leads the way;
To speak the virtues of a man,
That death has call’d away.
Oh may his spirit ever rest,
Beside the God of all,
And ever number’d with the blest,
Till he shall judge us all.
Death brought no terrors to his heart,
For resignation staid,
Till from his life he should depart,
And lent her cheering aid.