The husbandman lays bye his heavy flail, And to the house returns, where on him wait His smoking breakfast and impatient children; Who, spoon in hand, and longing to begin, Towards the door cast many a weary look To see their dad come in.---- Then round they sit, a chearful company, All eagerly begin, and with heap'd spoons Besmear from ear to ear their rosy cheeks. The faithful dog stands by his matter's side Wagging his tail, and looking in his face; While humble puss pays court to all around, And purs and rubs them with her furry sides; Nor goes this little flattery unrewarded. But the laborious sit not long at table; The grateful father lifts his eyes to heav'n To bless his God, whose ever bounteous hand Him and his little ones doth daily feed; Then rises satisfied to work again. The chearful rousing noise of industry Is heard, with varied sounds, thro' all the village. The humming wheel, the thrifty housewife's tongue, Who scolds to keep her maidens at their work, Rough grating cards, and voice of squaling children Issue from every house.---- But, hark!--the sportsman from the neighb'ring hedge His thunder sends!--loud bark each village cur; Up from her wheel each curious maiden starts, And hastens to the door, whilst matrons chide, Yet run to look themselves, in spite of thrift, And all the little town is in a stir. Strutting before, the cock leads forth his train, And, chuckling near the barn among the straw, Reminds the farmer of his morning's service; His grateful master throws a lib'ral handful; They flock about it, whilst the hungry sparrows Perch'd on the roof, look down with envious eye, Then, aiming well, amidst the feeders light, And seize upon the feast with greedy bill, Till angry partlets peck them off the field. But at a distance, on the leafless tree, All woe be gone, the lonely blackbird sits; The cold north wind ruffles his glossy feathers; Full oft' he looks, but dare not make approach; Then turns his yellow bill to peck his side, And claps his wings close to his sharpen'd breast. The wand'ring fowler, from behind the hedge, Fastens his eye upon him, points his gun, And firing wantonly as at a mark, E'en lays him low in that same cheerful spot Which oft' hath ccho'd with his ev'ning's song.