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THE WOODMAN.
IT was far retir’d from noise and smoke,
O hark! I hear the woodman’s stroke,
Who dreams not as he fells the oak,
What mischief dire he brews;
Or what may shape the falling trees
He knows no luxury nor ease,
Nor weighs not matters such as these,
But sings, and hacks, and hews.
The tree now fell'd by this good man,
Perhaps may form the spruce sedan,
Or wheelbarrow, where Oyster Nan
So vulgar runs her rigs:
The stage, where boxers crowd in flocks,
Or else the quacks, perhaps the stocks,
Or poles for signs for barber’s blocks,
Where smiles the parson’s wig.
It makes, bold peasant, O what grief.
The gibbet, on where hangs the thief,
The seat where sits the great Lord chief,
⟨The⟩ throne, the cobler’s stall:
