We talked of the rough narrow way
That leads to the kingdom of rest;
On Pisgah we stood to survey
The King in His holiness dressed—
Even Jesus, the crucified King,
Whose blood in rich crimson does flow,
Clean washing the crimson of sin,
And rinsing it whiter that snow. [{225}]
But later and later it’s wearing,
And supper they cheerfully bring,
The mealy potato and herring,
And water just fresh from the spring.
They press, and they smile: we sit down;
First praying the Father of Love
Our table with blessings to crown,
And feed us with bread from above.
The wealthy and bloated may sneer,
And sicken o’er luxury’s dishes,
And loathe the poor cottager’s cheer,
And melt in the heat of their wishes:
But luxury’s sons are unblest,
A prey to each giddy desire,
And hence, where they never know rest,
They sink in unquenchable fire.
Not so, the poor cottager’s lot,
Who travels the Zion-ward road,
He’s blest in his neat little cot,
He’s rich in the favour of God;
By faith he surmounts every wave
That rolls on this sea of distress:
Triumphant, he dives in the grave,
To rise on the ocean of bliss.
Now supper is o’er and we raise
Our prayers to the Father of light
And joyfully hymning His praise,
We lovingly bid a good-night.—
The ground’s white, the sky’s cloudless blue,
The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright on my view,
As I to my mansion repair.
All peace, my dear cottage, be thine!
Nor think that I’ll treat you with scorn;
Whoever reads verses of mine
Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne;
And had I but musical strains,
Though humble and mean in your station
You should smile whilst the world remains,
The pride of the fair Irish Nation.
In friendship, fair Erin, you glow;
Offended, you quickly forgive;
Your courage is known to each foe,
Yet foes on your bounty might live.
Some faults you, however, must own;
Dissensions, impetuous zeal,
And wild prodigality, grown
Too big for your income and weal.
Ah! Erin, if you would be great,
And happy, and wealthy, and wise,
And trample your sorrows, elate,
Contend for our cottager’s prize;
So error and vice shall decay,
And concord add bliss to renown,
And you shall gleam brighter than day,
The gem of the fair British Crown.