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At length he enter'd on a Mill,
Attended him, he flourish'd still,
His hand at brewing next he tried,
Such beer, such ale, his friends all said
No roguery in him was found,
No drugs from chemists' shops,
His beer was always good and sound, 'Twas made of malt and hops...
At length, John Barleycorn, 'tis said,-
Unknown if with Address to court
Our second Charles, of fame facete',
On loin of beef did dine,
He held his broad sword o'er the meat, And dub'd it then SIR LOIN.
But whether then the nut-brown ale,
Receiv'd like honour, records fail
Suffice it that he is a Knight
And may we all his love requite,
His fame still celebrate.
Long Life to SIR JOHN BARLEYCORN I drink with all my heart:
Put round, my boys, the drinking-horn, But sober let us part.
THE peasant's blest, who in his cot,
Whose family to cloathe and feed
Does each new day his hands employ, But toils, well pleas'd, th' approaching need
O happy state, which so contents!
Who asks of Heav'n what nature wants,
But asks no more.
The miser's fears ne'er rack his breast,
Each night he lays him down in peace;
No dreams of rapine break his rest,
He sleeps at ease.
Rises each morn with early dews,
With spirits gay.
When nature calls for nourishment,
He thankful eats.
Nor guilt, nor fear his joys dismay,
He works and sings.
But when the sun retracts his
And evening smoaks from chimneys come; Then, thoughtless, with an easy pace,
Goes whistling home.
There he his leisure hours enjoys,
Till sleep o'erpowers his weary eyes;
Then goes to rest.
Thus steal away his earthly days,
And dies in peace.
Each neighb'ring peasant weeps his end,
With heart sincere.
O Heav'n! let me such bliss enjoy,
Crown'd with content, and free from blame;
And may good deeds, whene'er I die,
Record my fame.
THE LABOURER'S WELCOME HOME.
BY MR. DIBDIN.
THE Ploughman whistles o'er the furrow,
Where'er the anxious eye can roam,