WIDE o'er the barren plain the bleak wind flies, 
Sweeps the high mountain's top, and with its breath 
Swells the curl'd river o'er the plain beneath, 
Where many a clay-built hut in ruin lies. 

The hardy PEASANT in his little cot, 
Lights his small fire, his homely meal prepares; 
No pamper'd luxury, no splendid cares 
Invade the comforts of his humble lot. 

Born to endure, he labours thro' the day, 
And when the midnight storm o'er spreads the skies, 
On a clean pallet peacefully he lies, 
And sweetly sleeps the lonely hours away; 
Till at the peep of dawn he wakes to find, 
HEALTH in his veins, and RAPTURE IN HIS MIND.