James Beattie

Changed to a lapwing by th' avenging god,
He made the barren waste his lone abode,
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Changed to a lapwing by th' avenging god,
He made the barren waste his lone abode,
And oft on soaring pinions hover'd o'er
The lofty palace then his own no more.

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
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Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down;
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave;
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.

From labour health, from health contentment spring;
Contentment opes the source of every joy.

From labour health, from health contentment spring;
Contentment opes the source of every joy.

I dare not hope to please a Cinna's ear.
Or sing what Varus might vouchsafe to hear;
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I dare not hope to please a Cinna's ear.
Or sing what Varus might vouchsafe to hear;
Harsh are the sweetest lays that I can bring,
So screams a goose where swans melodious sing.