The woodman gladly views the closing day, To see the sun drop down behind the wood, Sinking in clouds deep blue or misty grey, Round as a football and as red as blood: The pleasing prospect does his heart much good, Though ’tis not his such beauties to admire; He hastes to fill his bags with billet-wood, Well-pleas’d from the chill prospect to retire, To seek his corner chair, and warm snug cottage fire. And soon as dusky even hovers round, And the white frost ’gins crizzle pond and brook, The little family are glimpsing round, And from the door dart many a wistful look; The supper’s ready stewing on the hook: And every foot that clampers down the street Is for the coming father’s step mistook; O’erjoy’d are they when he their eyes doth meet, Bent ’neath his load, snow-clad, as white as any sheet. I think I see him seated in his chair, Taking the bellows up the fire to blow; I think I hear him joke and chatter there, Telling his children news they wish to know; With leather leggings on, that stopt the snow, And broad-brimm’d hat uncouthly shapen round: Nor would he, I’ll be bound, if it were so, Give twopence for the chance, could it be found, At that same hour to be the king of England crown’d. The woodman smokes, the brats in mirth and glee, And artless prattle, even’s hour beguile, While love’s last pledge runs scrambling up his knee, The nightly comfort from his weary toil, His chuff cheeks dimpling in a fondling smile; He claims his kiss, and says his scraps of prayer; Begging his daddy’s pretty song the while, Playing with his jacket-buttons and his hair;-- And thus in wedlock’s joys the labourer drowns his care. And as most labourers knowingly pretend By certain signs to judge the weather right, As oft from “Noah’s ark” great floods descend, And “buried moons” foretell great storms at night, In such-like things the woodman took delight; And ere he went to bed would always ken Whether the sky was gloom’d or stars shone bright, Then went to comfort’s arms till morn, and then As cheery as the sun resum’d his toils agen. And ere he slept he always breath’d a prayer, “I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou to-day didst give Sufficient strength to toil; and blest Thy care, And thank Thee still for what I may receive: And, O Almighty God! while I still live, Ere my eyes open on the last day’s sun, Prepare Thou me this wicked world to leave, And fit my passage ere my race is run; ’Tis all I beg, O Lord! Thy heavenly will be done.”