A very humble pen I ply
 Beneath a cottage thatch;
And in the sunny hours I try
 To till my cabbage patch;
And in the gloaming glad am I
 To lift the latch.
 
I do not plot to pile up pelf,
 With jowl and belly fat;
To simple song I give myself,
 And seek no gain at that:
Content if milk is on the shelf
 To feed the cat.

I joy that haleness I possess,
 Though fame has passed me by;
And see such gold of happiness
 A-shining in the sky,
I wonder who has won success,
 Proud men or I?

I do not grieve that I am poor,
 And by the world unknown;
Free as the wind, serene and sure,
 In peace I live alone.
'Tis better to be bard obscure
 Than King on Throne.