Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Oliver Goldsmith.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ill a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;
And every want to opulence allied,
And every pang that folly pays to pride.

These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room,
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look and brightened all the green;
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

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La terra no se’n surt, presa de mals profunds, Oliver Goldsmith.

La terra no se'n surt, presa de mals profunds,
quan s'hi acumula la riquesa i es marceixen els homes:
els prínceps i senyors prosperen i decauen,
els fa un sospir com un sospir sempre els ha fet;
però la pagesia audaç, cor i sal de la terra,
un cop perduda no es pot alçar.

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