Is worn by the poor, Who hither come, and freely get Like as my parlour, so my hall, A little buttery, and therein Which keeps my little loaf of bread Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess, too, when I dine And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. "T is Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; |