For this week's newsletter-only piece, we're sharing a poem written by Iolo Morganwgg entitled 'The Happy Farmer.'

The Happy Farmer

A pastoral by Edward Williams

Bard wrth Fraint a Defod Beirdd Ynys Prydain.

Inscribed to the Glamorgan Agricultural Society.

"I live on my farm in a beautiful vale,

Ye lovers of Nature attend to my tale;

No pride or ambition find room in my breast,

Those venomous foes of contentment and rest;

From sound healthy sleep I rise up every morn,

To toll in my fields with my cattle and corn,

And prefer, while of rural employments I sing,

The life of a Farmer to that of a King.

"On the fruits of my labour I look with delight,

My meadows are weedless, and gladden the sight;

The flocks in pastures are fair to behold,

Fine cows with large udders replenish my fold;

My fields yield abundance, in tillage complete,

Good barley, rich clover, and excellent wheat;

The seasons attend, through their changeable round,

In toils that with Plenty's rich blessings are crown'd.

"My house is convenient, and whiten'd all o'er,

An arbour of jessamine fronting the door;

My flourishing orchard abundantly bears

Fine plums, golden-pippins, and bergamot pears;

The rose, the sweet pink, in my garden are found,

Where dainties of health for my table abound;

My mind, when fatigu'd, here I often unbend,

Peruse a good book, or converse with a friend.

"With rural amusements, in sober delight,

I brighten my thoughts, their long labours requite;

And over my stubbles, when harvest id done,

I range in the morn with my dog and my gun;

Now course the fleet hare on the fern-cover'd hill,

Or angle for trout in a neighbouring rill;

And sometimes at eve, to enliven my soul,

I sing with my friend o'er a temperate bowl.

"Where flocks and large herds in my pastures are seen,

The cowslips, or daisy, bespangle the green;

I view my gay lambs nimbly frolic and play,

Whilst under their feet spring the beauties of May;

While, joyful, observing my flourishing corn,

The blackbird and linnet sing loud on the thorn;

Nor would I my peaceful employments lay down,

Or quit my green fields, for the pomp of a crown.

"To Providence grateful, I pity the poor,

Nor drive them in sadness away from my door;

Befriending my neighbours, I do all I can,

To act the good part of a sensible man:

But should my grieved conscience withhold its applause,

And blame me for trampling on Charity's laws;

Then I mourn, and am pensive, upbraiding myself,

But not like the Miser that whines for his pelf.

"Let lords of their high-sounding titles be vain,

Let slaves of mean av'rice in cities remain,

Let those that court fame ramble wantonly far,

And seek it in fields of detestable war;

Let others go combat the rage of the seas,

And barter for lucre contentment and ease;

Whilst I live in innocence, shelter'd from harm,

With Plenty and Peace on my flourishing farm."

• Iolo Morganwg, 1873.