O sweet disposal of the rural hour!
O beauties never known to cloy!
While worth and genius haunt the favour'd bow'r,
And every  breast partakes the joy!
While  at eve surveys the swain,
Enabled by these toils to chear
A train of helpless infants dear,
Speed whistling home across the plain;
Sees vagrant  her hand-maid grown,
For half her graceless deeds attone,
And hails the bounteous work, and ranks it with her own.