THE WOODMAN.
Far removed from noise and smoke,
Hark! I hear the woodman’s stroke,
Who dreams not as he fells the oak,
What mischief dire he brews;
How art may shape his falling trees,
In aid of luxury and ease:—
He weighs not matters such as these,
But sings, and hacks, and hews.
Perhaps, now fell’d by this bold man,
That tree may form the spruce sedan;
Or wheelbarrow, where oyster Nan
Oft runs her vulgar rig;
The stage, where boxers crowd in flocks;
Or else a quack’s; perhaps, the stocks;
Or posts for signs; or barber’s blocks,
Where smiles the parson’s wig.
Thou mak’st, bold peasant, oh what grief!
The gibbet on which hangs the thief,
The seat where sits the grave lord chief,
The throne, the cobler’s stall.
Thou pamper’st life in ev’ry stage,
Mak’st folly’s whims, pride’s equipage;
For children, toys; crutches, for age;
And coffins for us all.
C. Dibdin.