While nobles are anxious for honour and state,
The peasants are cheerful and void of debate;
No fame to allure them, no riches to prize,
And all that is wanting contentment supplies.
Their labours with pleasure they daily pursue,
Though small their possessions, their wants are
Content in their stations, though simple their fare,
Strangers to ambition, and strangers to care.
Returning from labour, in yonder green glade,
Behold aged Damon hath shoulder’d his spade;
While Rosa, his grandchild, with health in her
Runs out from the cottage to meet his embrace.
The tales of the day she is anxious to tell,
And gives him a nosegay of cowslips to smell:
Thus, all his attention she seems to engage,
The pride of his heart, the delight of his age.
In his old rustic settle, when seated is he,
The sweet little prattler climbs up on his knee;
A glow of delight on her cheek is display’d,
While she tells him the pranks that her pet-lamb
The toils of the day are by Damon forgot,
Contentment and peace are the guests of his cot;
He knows no vexation, with health he is blest;
Each day brings him labour, each night gives him
Mary M Colling, 1831