Bold chanticleer, arrayed
   In velvet plumage gay,
With many an amorous dame,
   Fierce strutted o’er the way;
      And motley ducks
         Were waddling seen,
      And drake with neck
         Of glossy green.

The latch I gently raised,
   And oped the humble door;
An oaken stool was placed
   On the neat sanded floor;
      An aged man
         Said with a smile,
      “You’re welcome, sir: 
         Come rest a while.”

His coarse attire was clean,
   His manner rude yet kind: 
His air, his words, and looks
   Showed a contented mind;
      Though mean and poor,
         Thrice happy he,
      As by our tale
         You soon shall see.

But don’t expect to hear
   Of deeds of martial fame,
Or that our peasant mean
   Was born of rank or name,
      And soon will strut,
         As in romance,
      A knight and all
         In armour glance.

I sing of real life;
   All else is empty show—­
To those who read a source
   Of much unreal woe: 
      Pollution, too,
         Through novel-veins,
      Oft fills the mind
         With guilty stains.

Our peasant long was bred
   Affliction’s meagre child,
Yet gratefully resigned,
   Loud hymning praises, smiled,
      And like a tower
         He stood unmoved,
      Supported by
         The God he loved.

His loving wife long since
   Was numbered with the dead
His son, a martial youth,
   Had for his country bled;
      And now remained
         One daughter fair,
      And only she,
         To soothe his care.

The aged man with tears
   Spoke of the lovely maid;
How earnestly she strove
   To lend her father aid,
      And as he ran
         Her praises o’er,
      She gently oped
         The cottage-door.

With vegetable store
   The table soon she spread,
And pressed me to partake;
   Whilst blushes rosy-red
      Suffused her face—­
         The old man smiled,
      Well pleased to see
         His darling child.

With venerable air
   He then looked up to God,
A blessing craved on all,
   And on our daily food;
      Then kindly begged
         I would excuse
      Their humble fair,
         And not refuse.—­

The tablecloth, though coarse,
   Was of a snowy white,
The vessels, spoons, and knives
   Were clean and dazzling bright;
      So down we sat
         Devoid of care,
      Nor envied kings
         Their dainty fare.

When nature was refreshed,
   And we familiar grown;
The good old man exclaimed,
   “Around Jehovah’s throne,
      Come, let us all
         Our voices raise,
      And sing our great
         Redeemer’s praise!”