He feels how helpless and forlorn he is, And bitter tears gush from his dim-worn eyes. His toilsome daily labour at an end, In comes the wearied master of the house, And marks with satisfaction his old guest, With all his children round.-- His honest heart is fill'd with manly kindness; He bids him stay, and share their homely meal, And take with them his quarters for the night. The weary wanderer thankfully accepts, And, seated with the cheerful family, Around the plain but hospitable board, Forgets the many hardships he has pass'd. When all are satisfied, about the fire They draw their seats, and form a cheerful ring. The thrifty housewife turns her spinning wheel; The husband, useful even in his rest, A little basket weaves of willow twigs, To bear her eggs to town on market days; And work but serves t'enliven conversation. Some idle neighbours now come straggling in, Draw round their chairs, and widen out the circle. Without a glass the tale and jest go round; And every one, in his own native way, Does what he can to cheer the merry group. Each tells some little story of himself, That constant subject upon which mankind, Whether in court or country, love to dwell. How at a fair he sav'd a simple clown From being tricked in buying of a cow; Or laid a bet upon his horse's head Against his neighbour's, bought for twice his price, Which fail'd not to repay his better skill: Or on a harvest day, bound in an hour More sheaves of corn than any of his fellows, Tho' ne'er so keen, could do in twice the time. But chief the landlord, at his own fire-side, Doth claim the right of being listen'd to; Nor dares a little bawling tongue be heard, Tho' but in play, to break upon his story. The children sit and listen with the rest; And should the youngest raise its little voice, The careful mother, ever on the watch, And always pleas'd with what her husband says, Gives it a gentle tap upon the fingers, Or stops its ill tim'd prattle with a kiss. The soldier next, but not unask'd, begins, And tells in better speech what he has seen; Making his simple audience to shrink With tales of war and blood. They gaze upon him, And almost weep to see the man so poor, So bent and feeble, helpless and forlorn, That oft' has stood undaunted in the battle Whilst thund'ring cannons shook the quaking earth, And showering bullets hiss'd around his head. With little care they pass away the night, Till time draws on when they should go to bed; Then all break up, and each retires to rest With peaceful mind, nor torn with vexing cares, Nor dancing with the unequal beat of pleasure.