Classic Poem

That all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Woolston doubts;
And that his son, and his son's son,
Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts.

Each, when his rustic pains began,
To merit pleaded equal right;
Twas only who left off at noon,
Or who went on to work till night.

But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection;
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis by election.

Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd,
Since thy forefathers held the plough;
When this shall be in story told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.

The man who by his labour gets
His bread, in independent state,
Who never begs, and seldom eats,
Himself can fix or change his fate.