"Thrice Happy He" The village-church among the trees, And point with taper spire to Heaven. 1589 Samuel Rogers [1763-1855] ODE ON SOLITUDE HAPPY the man, whose wish and care Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away Quiet by day; Sound sleep by night; study and ease And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. Alexander Pope [1688-1744] "THRICE HAPPY HE" THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove, Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, 66 William Drummond [1585-1649] UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE " From "As You Like It " UNDER the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. William Shakespeare [1564-1616] CORIDON'S SONG In "The Complete Angler " Он, the sweet contentment Coridon's Song That quiet contemplation Then care away, And wend along with me. For courts are full of flattery, The city full of wantonness, But oh, the honest countryman High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, His pride is in his tillage, His horses and his cart: Our clothing is good sheepskins, Gray russet for our wives, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, 'Tis warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives: The plowman, though he labor hard, Yet on the holiday, High trolollie lollie loe, High trollolie lee, No emperor so merrily To recompense our tillage High trolollie lee, And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers: 1591 The cuckoo and the nightingale High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring: This is not half the happiness High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Though others think they have as much Yet he that says so lies: Then come away, turn Countryman with me. John Chalkhill [f. 1648] THE OLD SQUIRE I LIKE the hunting of the hare And the crowing of the cocks. I like the calm of the early fields, I like the pheasants and feeding things I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush And the partridge hiding her head in a bush, I like these things, and I like to ride, When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, And where the sun grows red. The Old Squire The beagles at my horse-heels trot In silence after me; There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, A score of names well used, and dear, I like the hunting of the hare The new world still is all less fair I covet not a wider range Than these dear manors give; I leave my neighbors to their thought; On my own lands to find my sport, The hare herself no better loves I know my quarries every one, A hundred years ago. The lags, the gills, the forest ways, 1593 |