“I once rolled in wealth, without grace,
   But happiness ne’er was my lot,
Till Christ freely pitied my case,
   And now I am blest in a cot: 
Well knowing things earthly are vain,
   Their troubles ne’er puzzle my head;
Convinced that to die will be gain,
   I look on the grave as my bed.

“I look on the grave as my bed,
   Where I’ll sleep the swift hours away,
Till waked from their slumbers, the dead
   Shall rise, never more to decay: 
Then I, with my children and wife,
   Shall get a bright palace above,
And endlessly clothed with life,
   Shall dwell in the Eden of love.

“Then know, gentle stranger, though poor,
   We’re cheerful, contented, and blest;
Though princes should pass by our door
   King Jesus is ever our guest;
We feel, and we taste, and we see
   The pleasures which flow from our Lord,
And fearless, and wealthy, and free,
   We live on the joys of His word.”

He ceased:  and a big tear of joy
   Rolled glittering down to the ground;
Whilst all, having dropped their employ,
   Were buried in silence profound;
A sweet, solemn pause long ensued—­
   Each bosom o’erflowed with delight;
Then heavenly converse renewed,
   Beguiled the dull season of night.

We talked of the rough narrow way
   That leads to the kingdom of rest;
On Pisgah we stood to survey
   The King in His holiness dressed—­
Even Jesus, the crucified King,
   Whose blood in rich crimson does flow,
Clean washing the crimson of sin,
   And rinsing it whiter that snow. {225}

But later and later it’s wearing,
   And supper they cheerfully bring,
The mealy potato and herring,
   And water just fresh from the spring. 
They press, and they smile:  we sit down;
   First praying the Father of Love
Our table with blessings to crown,
   And feed us with bread from above.

The wealthy and bloated may sneer,
   And sicken o’er luxury’s dishes,
And loathe the poor cottager’s cheer,
   And melt in the heat of their wishes: 
But luxury’s sons are unblest,
   A prey to each giddy desire,
And hence, where they never know rest,
   They sink in unquenchable fire.

Not so, the poor cottager’s lot,
   Who travels the Zion-ward road,
He’s blest in his neat little cot,
   He’s rich in the favour of God;
By faith he surmounts every wave
   That rolls on this sea of distress: 
Triumphant, he dives in the grave,
   To rise on the ocean of bliss.

Now supper is o’er and we raise
   Our prayers to the Father of light
And joyfully hymning His praise,
   We lovingly bid a good-night.—­
The ground’s white, the sky’s cloudless blue,
   The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright on my view,
   As I to my mansion repair.

All peace, my dear cottage, be thine! 
   Nor think that I’ll treat you with scorn;
Whoever reads verses of mine
   Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne;
And had I but musical strains,
   Though humble and mean in your station
You should smile whilst the world remains,
   The pride of the fair Irish Nation.