Oliver Goldsmith

Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.

Amid thy desert-walks the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.

Nobody with me at sea but myself.

Nobody with me at sea but myself.

The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by read more

At night returning, every labour sped,
He sits him down, the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board.