And he who roams the village round,
Or strays amid the harvest sere,
Will hear, as now, too many a sound
Quiet would never wish to hear.

The wrangling rustics' loud abuse,
The coarse, unfeeling, witless jest,
The threat obscene, the oath profuse,
And all that cultured minds detest.

Hence let those Sylvan poets glean,
Who picture life without a flaw;
Nature may form a perfect scene,
But Fancy must the figures draw.

The word "fancy" connects itself with my very childhood, fifty years back.
The fancy of those who wrote the songs which I was obliged to hear in
infancy was a very inanimate and sleepy fancy. I could enumerate a dozen
songs at least which all described sleeping shepherds and shepherdesses,
and, in one instance, where they both went to sleep: this is not fair
certainly; it is not even "watch and watch."

"As Damon and Phillis were keeping of sheep,
Being free from all care they retired to sleep," &c.

I must say, that if I understand any thing at all about keeping sheep,
this is not the way to go to work with them. But such characters and such
writings were fashionable, and fashion will beat common sense at any time.

With all the beauty and spirit of Cunningham's "Kate of Aberdeen," and