The new-wak'd birds upon the branches hop, Peck their loft down, and bristle out their feathers; Then stretch their throats and tune their morning song; Whilst stately crows, high swinging o'er their heads. Upon the topmost boughs, in lordly pride, Mix their hoarse croaking with the linnet's note; Till gather'd closer in a sable band, They take their flight to leek their daily food. The village labourer, with careful mind, As soon as doth the morning light appear, Opens his eyes with the first darting ray That pierces thro' the window of his cot, And quits his easy bed; then o'er the field, With lengthen'd swinging strides, betakes his way, Bearing his spade and hoe across his moulder, Seen from afar clear glancing in the sun, And with good will begins his daily work. The sturdy sun-burnt boy drives forth the cattle, And vain of power, bawls to the lagging kine, Who fain would stay to crop the tender shoots Of the green tempting hedges as they pass; Or beats the glist'ning bushes with his club, To please his fancy with a shower of dew, And frighten the poor birds who lurk within. At ev'ry open door, thro' all the village, Half naked children, half awake, are seen Scratching their heads, and blinking to the light; Till roused by degrees, they run about, Or rolling in the sun, amongst the sand Build many a little house, with heedful art. The housewife tends within, her morning care; And stooping 'midst her tubs of curdled milk, With busy patience, draws the clear green whey From the press'd sides of the pure snowy curd; Whilst her brown dimpled maid, with tuck'd-up sleeve, And swelling arm, assists her in her toil. Pots smoke, pails rattle, and the warm confusion Still thickens on them, till within its mould, With careful hands, they press the well-wrought curd.