Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer (3).pdf/20



chill blow loud with angry brow,
 * The short'ning winter's day is near a close

The miry beasts retreating 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 and 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 quite forget his labour and his toil.