Not far from here, in this delightful vale

Not far from here, in this delightful vale, The venerable squire’s old mansion stood, Surrounded by rich pasturage and wood; The squire, himself a rare good-natured gent, Oft at this dwelling, hours of leisure spent; Would smoke his pipe, and not refuse to take A crust of cottage bread, of honest make: The sweet demeanour of this youthful lass Induced his “honour” to go there, and pass A portion of his time in quiet talk— In cautioning the damsel how to walk Through life’s rough path; and whilst to him she’d listen, Her face would crimson, and her eyes would glisten: This frank old Englishman confess’d his pride In stealing forth from home; awhile to hide From those gay gatherings within his halls, Where fashionable folk make daily calls (A-talking of the past, and coming balls,) Their avocation,—there to bow and prate, And worry nature in its last estate.

The cottage.