Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer, the ancient Scotch prophet (2).pdf/20



chill blow loud with angry brow, The short’ning winter’s day is near a close; The miry beasts retiring from the plough; The black’ning train of crows seek their repose, The toil-worn Cottager from labour goes, This night his weekly toil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary o’er the moor his course does homeward bend.

At length his lonely Cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th’ expectant young ones tottering stagger thro’, To meet their Dad with prattling noise & glee: His little wood-fire sparkling cheerfully. His clean hearth-stone, his thrifty wife’s glad smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does all his weary anxious cares beguile, And makes him quit forget his labour and his toil.