  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 near 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 beneath the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. |
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