O 'tis a merry life to lead,
   To trundle in the sun,
With Nature's lovely book to read
   And a joy to think upon;
Already lambstails on the bough,
   Where the stunted hawthorn juts,
And where the wild wood-lilies blow,
   Have changed to hazel nuts.

Through chill December's wasteful spite,
   And January's frown,
Though Wayland's hill was flecked with white
   We battled on the down;
Though the wind blew up a hurricane
   And felled the tallest tree,
The huricane blew up in vain,
   True merry fools were we.

I've heard the parish beadle tell
   There's better store in town
Than ploughing on the windy fell
   And reaping on the down;
But let the wretches gasp who will
   Within the smoky walls,
Mine is the freedom of the hill
   Where the early red-wing calls.

Give me the bonny heart and wold
   With happy child and wife,
A curse is on the brightest gold
   That's won with daily strife;
Here like a monarch will I live,
   And praise my humble store
Heaven could no greater blessing give,
   Or I petition more.