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Mine be a cot beside the hill,
A bee-hive’s hum shall sooth 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 ivy’d 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 giv’n, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav’n.
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