Love ye the scenes of rural life –
the lawn, the grove, the busy mill,
Free from the noise of care and strife?
The turn your eye to Champion Hill.

Thrice happy – thrice enchanting spot;
What transports thro’ the bosom thrill,
What Joy to find some humble cot,
And view the charms of Champion Hill.

The verdant vale that slopes below,
The woods where bleak winds whisper shrill,
The breaks that distant landscape show,
Delight the mind on Champion Hill.

Of Hampstead now we sing no more,
A better taste directs our will,
On every rural grace to pore,
That strikes the eye on Champion Hill.

There lordly mansions soon shall rise,
Adorn’d with true Palladian skill;
And tasteful villa’s strike the eyes,
Scattered o-er beauteous Champion Hill.
Oh Norwood! How I love to trace,
At sober eve, when all is still,
The rustic, the poetic grace,
Thy prospect gives to Champion Hill.

Here, poet, come! thou man of rhyme,
With rapture here thy bosom fill –
Hark how the distant sheep-bells chime,
To lull thine eye, on Champion Hill.

The blackbird pours his mellow note,
The song-thrush warbles near the rill,
The skylark strains his swelling throat,
The turtle coos on Champion Hill.

And there the shepherd tends his flock,
And there the swains the uplands till;
Rous’d by the crowing of the cock,
I brush the dews o-er Champion Hill.

And pity you, who time consume,
In scenes of riot and quadrille,
While meditation finds such room,
For solid bliss on Champion Hill.
— Anon 1796