Thomas Cole, from “The Life of Hubert”

The time allowed for sleep at length elapsed, 
We, quite refreshed, awake at usual hour, 
Greeted with usual sounds. The swallow’s wing 
In chimney tunnel flutt'ring up and down, 
And frequent twitt’rings sweet, as bit by bit 
She plasters busily, with trowel bill, 
The rough-cast layers of her mud-wall cell.
The close-grouped pigeons on the sunny tiles, 
Scrambling in languid luxury to bask, 
Or roving to and fro on flapping plumes, 
In restless ardour to complete their loves;
Whilst, aided by our fancy’s eye, we see 
Each strutting Tom, with noddling head erect, 
Inflated crop, and glossy neck that darts, 
At ev’ry turn, a change of rainbow dyes, 
Oft as we hear him cooing to his mate.
The early mower of the dewy lawn, 
With sandy stone of grating texture rough, 
Whetting his scythe in shrill alternate twangs.
The lulling stroke, at true-timed intervals, 
Of thresher’s flail, now sounding dead on straw, 
And now sharp echoed from elastic floor 
Of planchèd barn: a tell-tale task, most sure, 
If long remitted, to his master’s ear 
The idle day-work lab’rer to betray.
The rumbling roll of heavy waggon-wheels 
O’er the rough pitching of the flinty yard;
With jingling bells from the head-tossing team, 
And frequent crack resounding from the lash 
Of carter’s whip. Just risen from her nest, 
The joyous cackling hen, from burden free 
Of fresh-delivered egg. The bellowing cow 
For calf pent up; bemoaning, in return, 
Her cruel lot, at once of freedom robbed 
And nat’ral bev’rage of a mother’s milk.
The jostling herd of greedy grunting sows 
And eager squeaking pigs, when dairy-maid, 
Her cheese-curd pressed, from loaded bucket pours 
A copious tide of whey into their trough;
To their impure, voracious appetites
Most sav’ry still, though snouts with mud begrimed 
And dung-clad feet plunge in at once to taint,
With compound filth, the sweetness of their mess.
The turkey-cock’s loud hoggle-goggling throat,
When midst his mates he rears his fan-tail plumes, 
Drops low his arched wings in stately sweep, 
To flirt their pinion quills against the ground.
The hissings fierce, the hoarse defying screams 
Of gander, trusting in his potent wing, 
When hogs, or dogs, or men approach too near 
His fav’rite goose, and yellow gosling train:
And then the earnest gabbling, twattling bills 
Of old and young close met, with out-stretched necks, 
To greet each other on their safe escape.
At greater distance, though not far remote, 
The softened ceaseless lapse of rough cascade 
O’er the shut sluices of the deep canal,
Well stored with carp and tench: while near its banks, 
From nests close-clust’ring on the topmost boughs 
Of ancient grove, or scattered wide on wing, 
The long-established colony of rooks 
Their num’rous, ceaseless, varied cawings blend.

Thomas Cole, 1727-1796 – “The Life of Hubert” from The New Oxford Book of Eighteenth-Century Verse