A very humble pen I ply Beneath a cottage thatch; And in the sunny hours I try To till my cabbage patch; And in the gloaming glad am I To lift the latch. I do not plot to pile up pelf, With jowl and belly fat; To simple song I give myself, And seek no gain at that: Content if milk is on the shelf To feed the cat. I joy that haleness I possess, Though fame has passed me by; And see such gold of happiness A-shining in the sky, I wonder who has won success, Proud men or I? I do not grieve that I am poor, And by the world unknown; Free as the wind, serene and sure, In peace I live alone. 'Tis better to be bard obscure Than King on Throne.