Classic Poem

I

How bless'd the Swain of Bethnal-green,
Who ne'er a Court beheld,
Nor ever rov'd beyond the Scene
Of his paternal Field!

II

But, where he prov'd the Go-cart's Aid,
He prov'd the Crutch's too;
One only House his Mansion made,
Till Life (tho' late) withdrew.

III

False Fortune ne'er, with Smile or Frown,
Or rais'd him, or deprest;
Her Frowns and Smiles were both unknown
To his contented Breast.

IV

The Chance of Stocks he never try'd,
Nor knew to buy or sell;
So scap'd the dreadful golden Tide,
Where South-Sea Merchants fell.

V

Skill'd in no Bus'ness but his own,
He shunn'd the noisy Bar;
Nor ever prov'd the smoky Town,
But breath'd a purer Air.

VI

Nor by Lord Mayor's Day he knew
The rolling Year to bound;
Nor kept an Almanack to shew
How Seasons vary'd round.

VII

He Summer knew by Heat extreme,
The Winter by its Cold;
P OMONA shew'd when Autumn came,
When Spring , gay Flora told.

VIII

He planted once an Acorn small,
And liv'd to see it rise
A mighty Oak, so wond'rous tall,
It seem'd to prop the Skies.

IX

And, by the Shade its Branches cast,
Could he much truer know,
What Hour, and how his Moments past,
Than by the clock of Bow .

X

Tho' London stood so near his Cot,
He never mark'd the Dome ;
But thought St. Paul's as far remote,
As Peter's Church at Rome.

XI

Of Isis he was only told,
But ne'er beheld her Streams;
Nor knew, but that the Ganges roll'd
Near as the neighb'ring Thames .

XII

Of Jellies, Creams, Ragoas, and Tarts,
His Stomach never thought;
A perfect Stranger to the Arts
Luxurious Cooks have taught!

XIII

Yet, with a simple Food supply'd,
His Health was so intire,
That when his ancient Children dy'd,
They left a youthful Sire.

XIV

Let others search for golden Bliss
On India 's wealthy Shore;
Their Joys of Life are less than his,
Their Labours ten times more.