A cobbler, who had fix'd his stall Against a nabob's palace wall, Work'd merrily as others play, And sung and whistled all the day. A prey to many an anxious care, Less merry was the lord, by far; And often in the night he thought It hard, sleep was not to be bought: And if tow'rds morn he got a doze, The cobbler troubled his repose. One day he bid the man attend-- And, "Well," says he, "my honest friend, How is it that so well you thrive? You seem the happiest man alive. Pray, what may be the profit clear, That you can earn within the year?" "What in a twelvemonth I can earn, My lord, was never my concern; 'Tis quite enough," the cobbler said, "If I can gain my daily bread." "Take then this note"--'twas twenty pound; "But sing not with so shrill a sound, Good man," the generous nabob cries, "When early to your work you rise; For then I want to close my eyes." Delighted to his stall he went: But now he first felt discontent; All day he neither work'd nor ate, For thinking of his happy fate. At night, when he retir'd to bed, He plac'd the note beneath his head. But could not sleep a single wink, What he should do with it, to think; And every little noise he heard, That folks were come to rob him, fear'd. Living in constant dread to all, Who did but look towards his stall, So lean and sallow he was grown, The man was hardly to be known. At last he begg'd the lord to see: "Take back your present, sir," said he, "Riches, I find, are not for me. To-morrow I my song renew; Not less my gratitude to you: And care henceforward I will take, My chaunts your slumber do not break."