The contented Country Maid

What happiness the rural maid attends, In chearful labour while each day she spends; She gratefully receives what Heaven has sent, And, rich in poverty, enjoys content. She seldom feels the spleen's imagin'd pains, Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins; She rarely loses life in thoughtless ease, Nor on the velvet couch invites disease. Her homespun dress in simple neatness lies, And for no glaring equipage she sighs. Her reputation, which is all her boast, In a malicious visit ne'er was lost. No midnight masquerade her beauty wears, And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs. If love and quiet in her bosom reign, And like enjoyment in her happy swain, No homebred jars her quiet state controul, Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul. With secret joy she sees her little race Rest on her knee, and her small cottage grace; The fleecy ball their busy fingers cull, Or from the spindle draw the length'ning wool; Thus flow her hours, with constant peace of mind, Till age the latest thread of life unwind.

OF all those sorrows that attend mankind, With patience bear the lot to thee assign'd, Nor think it chance, nor murmur at the load, For know what man calls fortune, is from God.