Quite cheerful he ploughs the rude plain.
He hums his love’s praise in a song,
Or whistling forgets her disdain.
The seed in the furrow he throws,
Indulg’d by bright Phœbus’s rays;
Rich Ceres vast increase bestows,
When Autumn her bounty displays.
The lambkins now sport on the mead;
They skip round the heath-cover’d hill;
Their dams how securely they feed