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II.
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE.
'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.
He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
His staff is a sceptre—his grey hairs a crown;
Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak
Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.
Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,—mid the joy
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a Boy;
There fashion'd that countenance, which, in spite of a stain
That his life hath received, to the last will remain.
