Not far from here,[162] in this delightful vale,
The venerable squire’s old mansion stood,
Surrounded by rich pasturage and wood;
The squire, himself a rare good-natured gent,
Oft at this dwelling, hours of leisure spent;
Would smoke his pipe, and not refuse to take
A crust of cottage bread, of honest[163] make:
The sweet demeanour of this youthful lass
Induced his “honour” to go there, and pass
A portion of his time in quiet talk—
In cautioning the damsel how to walk
Through life’s rough path; and whilst to him she’d listen,
Her face would crimson, and her eyes would glisten:
This frank old Englishman confess’d his pride
In stealing forth from home; awhile to hide
From those gay gatherings within his halls,
Where fashionable folk make daily calls
(A-talking of the past, and coming balls,)
Their avocation,—there to bow and prate,
And worry nature in its last estate.
[162] The cottage.
[163] Unadulterated.