Far removed from noise and smoak

Far removed from noise and smoak,
Hark I hear the woodman's stroke,
Who dreams not, as he fells the oak,
What mischief dire he brews:
How art shall shape his falling trees,
For aid of luxury and ease,
He weighs not matters such as these,
But sings, and hacks, and hews.

Perhaps now fell'd by this bold man,
That tree shall form the spruce sedan,
Or wheelbarrow, where oyster Nan
So runs her vulgar rig;
The stage where boxers crowd in flocks,
Or else a quack's, perhaps the stocks,
Or posts for sings, or barber's blocks,
Where smiles the parson's wig.

Thou mak'st, bold peasant, oh what grief,
The gibbet on which hangs the thief,
The seat where sits the great Lord Chief,
The throne, the cobler's stall:
Thou pamper'st life in every stage,
Mak'st solly's whims, pride's equipage,
For children toys, crutches for age,
And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford,
These chairs, and this convivial board,
The bin that holds gay Bacchus' hoard,
Confess the woodman's stroke:
He made the press that bled the vine,
The butt that holds the generous wine,
The hall itself, where tiplers join
To crack the mirthful joke.