The Old Hills'-Man and his Truck

How oft I met the old hills'-man and his truck,
Gleaning the refuse of that mountain-road!
How oft he stopp'd to chat and bless his luck,
Or talk how much to Providence he owed!
Fresh was his fancy, and his heart was full;,
His long-plied shovel had its own romance
For him, and every varying circumstance
Of earth and sky forbad him to be dull:
How oft he fish'd his treasure from the crest
Of rain-fed gullies, hurrying to the west
In the wild sunshine, when the storm went by,
Or came on earlier fortunes, in the eye
Of rosy morn, the roadster's first supply;
Gay at all hours, and ever on the quest!