Samuel Rogers (1763–1855)

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft beneath my thatch

Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;

And Lucy at her wheel shall sing

In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church among the trees,

Where first our marriage vows were given,

With merry peals shall swell the breeze

And point with taper spire to Heaven.