SIR , fly the smoke and clamour of the town,
Breathe country air, and see the farms cut down;
Revel our Nature's sweets, and dine upon the chief,
Praising the granter of the plenteous sheaf.
Free from all care, we'll range through various fields,
Study those plants which mother Nature yields;
On Lyne's meand'ring brooks sometimes we'll fish,
The trout 's a brave but no expensive dish.
When limbs are wearied, and our sport is done,
We'll trudge to Cantswalls by the setting sun:
And then some hours we'll quaff a cup of ale,
And smoke our pipe, backed with a wanton tale.
We'll read no Courant, which the news home brings,
For what have we to do with wars or kings?
We'll ne'er disturb our heads with state affairs,
But talk of ploughs, and sheep, and country fairs.
Churchmen's contentions we abhor to hear,
They're not for conscience but for worldly gear.
We'll fear our God, wish well to king and nation,
Worship on Sabbath with the congregation,
Thus live in peace, and die in reputation.