Molest his quiet, unassuming reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that old tree’s shade,
Where ancient seats in many a mould’ring heap
Spread out, where in repose you may be laid,
Most sweetly to enjoy the balm of sleep.
Whilst the mild beams which ev’ning does adorn,
The gay young student laughing at your head;
The Postman’s bell, or th’ echoing horn,
Rouse you no longer from your lowly bed.
For you, the blazing hearth ne’er does burn;