But when pale Winter lights the social fire,
And meads with slime are spent, and ways with mire,
Thou charm’st us with thy soft and solemn hymn,
From battlement or barn, or hay-stack trim;
And now not seldom tun’st, as if for hire.
Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch
The pittance due to thy well-warbled song:
Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,
Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng,
And oft for entrance ’neath the peaceful thatch,