Cottager's Song

No elegant palace God raised o'er my head,
Rich tapestry gave not, nor silk to my bed;
But a cottage of peace, and a rude, healthy life,
And, to crown my enjoyments, a brown, cheerful wife.
Together we earn the coarse bread which we eat,
And love makes it taste more delightfully sweet;
When our labours are ended, together we rest,
And each to the other's bare bosom is prest.
The sun rises up—and we rise, full of joy,
Full of strength, to the busy day's wonted employ.
Then the spring dawns in green, and the fields smile anew,
And every fresh flow'ret is dripping with dew;
And the song of the lark pours its melodies sweet,
Like a zephyr of freshness on summer's close heat.
Then comes the gay vintage—the red grapes we bear,
And alike of the labor and recompence share.
The winter puts on its white robes—we retire
At even—and bend o'er our own cottage fire.
My Sari turns round the gay spindle and sings,
And out of our happiness time makes its wings.
I have handicraft labors—and, happy the thought,
For this pay no taxes to Germans—nor ought.
The sabbath comes round, and in holiday gear
I go to God's dwelling—then quietly steer
To the Kortsma, where, cheer'd by a wine-loving brother,
We pledge a full glass, and we laugh with each other;
Get warm, and we call on the Gipsies to play.
I know of no care, roll the world as it may:
I nothing am owed, and to nobody owe—
Hurting none, none will hurt me—so smiling we go
On the rude path of life—when its labors are past,
Death will find us both ready and cheerful at last.