From a Gravestone in The Churchyard of Dinton, Near Aylesbury.
On a Farmer.
I've ploughed my land and sown it too;
I've cleaned it, dressed, and drained it through.
My landlord sends me word to quit:
To him in duty I submit.
He bids me seek another soil
In pastures green and free from toil,
And tells me through His Son to stand
The occupant of better land,
No matter whether clay or sand.
At first I thought it hard to leave;
My heart's now changed; I cease to grieve.
In Christ's my faith; I hope to rise,
And reap my harvest in the skies.
From a Gravestone in Same Churchyard.
I've plodded through life's weary way,
In various callings of the day.
A ploughboy first in Suffolk born,
I turned straight furrows for the corn,
In days when farmers lodged their men,
And held their conduct under ken.
The squire's chariot next I drove;
By industry to rise I strove.
I then, alas! engaged an Inn,
Temptation strong to vice and sin.
Ere long I left the revel scene
For purer ways and more serene,
And village children next did train,
And aimed subjection to maintain
To God, to Parents, Pastors, Masters,
And guide them thus through life's disasters.
Now my works in death are ended,
Worthless all with error blended.
In penitence and faith, 0 Lord!
I lean on Christ, the Incarnate Word.
At the Archangel's thrilling blast,
Oh! take me to Thyself at last!
