The lambkin striking o’er the plain,
The cultur’d fields well stor’d with grain,
The blooming meadows, fresh and gay,
With pleas’d delight I would survey.
Far from the pomp of worldly glare,
Contented in my humble sphere,
I’d envy not the rich and great,
Their glitt’ring gems or rooms of state.
Economy should grace my cot—
Ingratitude—I’d know it not;