Now weary labourers perceive, well-pleas'd, The shadows lengthen, and th' oppressive day With all its toil fast wearing to an end. The sun, far in the west, with side-long beam Plays on the yellow head of the round hay-cock, And fields are checker'd with fantastic shapes Or tree, or shrub, or gate, or rugged stone, All lengthen'd out, in antic disproportion, Upon the darken'd grass.---- They finish out their long and toilsome talk. Then, gathering up their rakes and scatter'd coats, With the less cumb'rous fragments of their feast, Return right gladly to their peaceful homes. The village, lone and silent thro' the day, Receiving from the fields its merry bands, Sends forth its ev'ning sound, confus'd but cheerful; Whilst dogs and children, eager housewives' tongues, And true love ditties, in no plaintive strain, By shrill voic'd maid, at open window sung; The lowing of the home-returning kine, The herd's low droning trump, and tinkling bell Tied to the collar of his fav'rite sheep, Make no contemptible variety To ears not over nice.---- With careless lounging gait, the saunt'ring youth Upon his sweetheart's open window leans, And as she turns about her buzzing wheel Diverts her with his jokes and harmless taunts. Close by the cottage door, with placid mien, The old man sits upon his seat of turf, His staff with crooked head laid by his side, Which oft the younger race in wanton sport, Gambolling round him, slyly steal away, And straddling o'er it, shew their horsemanship By raising round the clouds of summer sand, While still he smiles, yet chides them for the trick. His silver locks upon his shoulders spread, And not ungraceful is his stoop of age. No stranger passes him without regard; And ev'ry neighbour stops to wish him well, And ask him his opinion of the weather. They fret not at the length of his discourse, But listen with respect to his remarks Upon the various seasons he remembers; For well he knows the many divers signs Which do fortell high winds, or rain, or drought, Or ought that may affect the rising crop. The silken clad, who courtly breeding boast, Their own discourse still sweetest to their ears, May grumble at the old man's lengthened story, But here it is not so.----