A very humble pen I ply
Beneath a cottage thatch;
And in the sunny hours I try
To till my cabbage patch;
And in the gloaming glad am I
To lift the latch.
I do not plot to pile up pelf,
With jowl and belly fat;
To simple song I give myself,
And seek no gain at that:
Content if milk is on the shelf
To feed the cat.
I joy that haleness I possess,
Though fame has passed me by;
And see such gold of happiness
A-shining in the sky,
I wonder who has won success,
Proud men or I?
I do not grieve that I am poor,
And by the world unknown;
Free as the wind, serene and sure,
In peace I live alone.
‘Tis better to be bard obscure
Than King on Throne.
