The busy hours of day are o'er,
And ruddy labour toils no more,
The lambs are folded in the vale,
And cheerful murmurs swell the gale:
The harper sounds a merry strain,
And calls the jocund village train,
To dance, or song, or laugh, or jest,
'Till moonbeams speak the hour of rest.

See smiling Age, and frolic Youth,
And wedded Love, and plighted Truth;
And calm Content, and Temp'rance meek,
And vig'rous Health with glowing cheek:
Go search for bliss in pomp or shew,
But never, never shalt thou know
So blythe a heart, so free from pain,
As glads the simple village swain.