The rocks and sholes of life
Im ever fain to shun
The incubus of strife
Leaves me undone
The poor mans cares are never o'er
The rich man owns his coach and four.


But give me the humble cot
And patience to endure
Contented wi' my humble lot
And I'll not ask for more
The poor man at his supper sits
By green wood fire that burns by fits.


Give me the poor mans fare
His cot like clean pig stye
And I'll be happy there
In corner warm and dry
And sup and smoke short pipe at ease
And thank God for my bread and cheese.


Give me the poor mans lot
His toil in woods to hack
A corner in his cot
With a garden at the back
Where Bears-breach powdered flowers
Amuse his leisure hours.


A string pulls up the latch
There's his flagging bottom chair
And the martin neath the thatch
Hangs her mortar dwelling there
Give me a cottage to my mind
And I a peaceful home shall find.
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