Classic Poem

You're right, my dear! — much more, I ween,
Of sweet content I've often seen,
In honest taylor Tom 's;
Much more, I swear, than e'er I saw
'Mongst lords of land , or lords of law ,
In all their lordly domes.

But say, my dear! say, couldst thou dwell,
Some poor man's wife in some poor cell,
With little to endear it!
But love and peace, and bless your lot,
And sing, and cheer his little cot?
I fear, I fear, I fear it!

But if thou wouldest share my fate,
In this, or any meaner state,
I ne'er so mean a body;
As I'm in love, believe my word,
If ever I should be my Lord,
Thou, thou should'st be my Lady.

But, pugh! to sweet content and thee,
Pray, what is Lordship unto me?
What's Majesty itself?
Crowns, sceptres, titles, I despise,
And riches, in my reason's eyes,
Appear but prid'ning pelf.

That these could ne'er supply the want
Of love, and peace, and sweet content,
The annals of all nations
Declare; and we have seldom seen
Content with wealth and pow'r combine,
To bless superior stations.

Health, competence, with thee, my dear!
A cot like Tom 's — brochan — and beer
Like his, full brisk and nappy;
Brew'd by himself and wife, they say,
To treat their friends on New-year's day;
Would make me too too happy!