Strutting before, the cock leads forth his train,
And, chuckling near the barn among the straw,
Reminds the farmer of his morning’s service;
His grateful master throws a lib’ral handful;
They flock about it, whilst the hungry sparrows
Perch’d on the roof, look down with envious eye,
Then, aiming well, amidst the feeders light,
And seize upon the feast with greedy bill,
Till angry partlets peck them off the field. 
But at a distance, on the leafless tree,
All woe be gone, the lonely blackbird sits;
The cold north wind ruffles his glossy feathers;
Full oft’ he looks, but dare not make approach;
Then turns his yellow bill to peck his side,
And claps his wings close to his sharpen’d breast. 
The wand’ring fowler, from behind the hedge,
Fastens his eye upon him, points his gun,
And firing wantonly as at a mark,
E’en lays him low in that same cheerful spot
Which oft’ hath ccho’d with his ev’ning’s song.

The day now at its height, the pent-up kine
Are driven from their flails to take the air. 
How stupidly they stare! and feel how strange! 
They open wide their smoking mouths to low,
But scarcely can their feeble sound be heard;
Then turn and lick themselves, and step by step
Move dull and heavy to their flails again. 
In scatter’d groups the little idle boys
With purple fingers, moulding in the snow
Their icy ammunition, pant for war;
And, drawing up in opposite array,
Send forth a mighty fliower of well aim’d balls,
Whilst little hero’s try their growing flrength,
And burn to beat the en’my off the field. 
Or on the well worn ice in eager throngs,
Aiming their race, shoot rapidly along,
Trip up each other’s heels, and on the surface
With knotted shoes, draw many a chalky line. 
Untir’d of play, they never cease their sport
Till the faint sun has almost run his course,
And threat’ning clouds, slow rising from the north,
Spread grumly darkness o’er the face of heav’n;
Then, by degrees, they scatter to their homes,
With many a broken head and bloody nose,
To claim their mothers’ pity, who, most skilful,
Cures all their troubles with a bit of bread.

The night comes on a pace——­
Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in wreaths. 
Now ev’ry creature looks around for shelter,
And, whether man or beast, all move alike
Towards their several homes; and happy they
Who have a house to screen them from the cold! 
Lo, o’er the frost a rev’rend form advances! 
His hair white as the snow on which he treads,
His forehead mark’d with many a care-worn furrow,
Whose feeble body, bending o’er a staff,
Still shew that once it was the seat of strength,
Tho’ now it shakes like some old ruin’d tow’r,
Cloth’d indeed, but not disgrac’d with rags,
He still maintains that decent dignity
Which well becomes those who have serv’d their