Mine be a cot beside the hill;
  A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
  A willowy brook that turns a mill
  With many a fall shall linger near.

  The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
  Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
  Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
  And share my meal, a welcome guest.

  Around my ivied porch shall spring
  Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
  And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
  In russet gown and apron blue.

  The village church among the trees,
  Where first our marriage-vows were given,
  With merry peals shall swell the breeze
  And point with taper spire to Heaven.