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Mine be a cot beside the hill ;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.