For forty years have we known him—
‘A Cumberland yeoman of old’—
But thrice forty years they shall perish
Ere the fame of his deeds shall be cold.
No broadcloth or scarlet adorn’d him,
Or buckskins that rival the snow,
But of plain ‘Skiddaw gray’ was his raiment,
He wore it for work, not for show.
Now, when darkness at night draws her mantle,
And cold round the fire bids us steal,