But sober joys to Eve belong,
The cheerful fire, the happy throng.
She sees the housewife oft prepare
The favourite dish and easy chair,
To welcome home her labouring lord,
And spread some dainty on his board;
Her face displaying joy and care,
Which spread a change of beauty there,
That by the vague impartial eye
Might on the cheek neglected die.
Not so; he eats the dish she dresses,
Tells her she's kind, and likes her messes;
Abroad for dainties he'll not roam,
For every thing is best at home.
The little prattlers have their share
Proportioned with exactest care;
The young ones on each knee are set, —
Calls this good boy, and that his pet;
The rest all climbing up his side,
Petition for to-morrow's ride.