4
Then may victory's sword to the olive resign,
Pull away, &c
And peace crown the land in the ocean.
THE WAY WORN TRAVELLER
Faint and wearily the way-worn traveller,
Plods uncheerily, afraid to stop:
Wandering drearily a sad unraveller,
of the mazes 'tward the mountain's top:
Doubting, fearing,
As his course he's steering,
Cottages appearing
As he's nigh to drop:
Oh! how briskly then the way-worn traveller,
Treads the mazes 'tward the mountains top.
Though now melancholy day has pass'd by,
would be folly now to think on't more;
Blithe and Jolly he the cag holds fast by,
As he's sitting at the goatherd's door.
Eating quaffing,
At past labours laughing,
Better far, by half, in
Spirits than before;
Oh! how merry then the rested traveller,
Seems while sitting at the goat-herd's door
