Nor dwells beneath the gilded roof;
For poverty is bliss with health,
Of that my Pot-boy stands a proof.
See him with steady footsteps here,
How straight he bears the brimful jug,
And sips with thirsty lips the beer,
Which high o’ertops the pewter mug.
When night resumes her gloomy sway,
The object of his fond desire;
How happy then he’ll sport and play,