Is worn by the

poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine
The pulse is Thine,

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:
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

"T is Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;