Classic Poem

The storm and night are on the waste,
Wild thro' the wind the herdsman calls,
As fast, on willing Nag, I haste,
Home to my own four walls.

Black, tossing clouds, with scarce a glimmer,
Envelope Earth, like sevenfold palls:
But wifekin watches, coffee-pot doth simmer,
Home in my own four walls!

A home and wife I too have got,
A hearth to blaze whate'er befal[l]s!
What needs a man that I have not
Within my own four walls?

King George has palaces of pride,
And armed grooms must ward their halls:
With one stout bolt, I safe abide
Within my own four walls.

Not all his men may sever this,
It yields to Friend's, not Monarch's calls,
My whinstone house my Castle is,
I have my own four walls.

When fools or Knaves do make a rout,
With gigman dinners, balls, cabals,
I turn my back, and shut them out;
These are my own four walls.

The moorland house, tho' rude it be,
May stand the brunt, when prouder falls;
'Twill screen my wife, my Books and me,
All in my own four walls.