Their little House was plac'd beneath a Hill,
Whose Verge was water'd by a streaming Rill:
The Stranger here no gilded Spires saw,
For this low Roof was thatch'd with humble Straw;
Mosaick here nor Fret-work there was none,
Nor  Glass to sparkle in the Sun:
Its only Window was of Osier made,
Full South it look'd and seldom knew the Shade,
Where by the Sun this careful Peasant knew,
How o'er his Head the swift-wing'd Minutes flew;
A little Orchard too was planted nigh,
And the cool River roll'd its Waters by:
In whose clear Stream the pendent Willows lave,
And the weak Bullrush trembl'd o'er the Wave:
Within the Banks soft Water-cresses spring,
Where the pleas'd Heron prunes her dabbled Wing.