 | Moral songs |  |
THE TRAVELLER.
A weary man with dusty feet,
Came slowly down the village street,
And paused to look with wistful gaze,
Where, through the smithy's open door,
The restless fire doth crack, and roar,
For the great bellows evermore
Doth set it in a blaze.
Came slowly down the village street,
And paused to look with wistful gaze,
6
The restless fire doth crack, and roar,
For the great bellows evermore
Doth set it in a blaze.
The blacksmith has a six year child,
A blue-eyed maiden coy and mild,
She saw the wish his look expressed:
And with her small white apron neat,
She dusted down the dark brown seat,
And prayed him with a smile most sweet,
To enter there, and rest.
A blue-eyed maiden coy and mild,
She saw the wish his look expressed:
And with her small white apron neat,
She dusted down the dark brown seat,
And prayed him with a smile most sweet,
To enter there, and rest.
The child brought forth the cup of milk,
With tiny hand as soft as silk,
She held it to the traveller's lip;
And as he drank it thankfully,
He whispered to the maiden shy,
How far away his home did lie,
Beyond the mountain's tip;
With tiny hand as soft as silk,
She held it to the traveller's lip;
And as he drank it thankfully,
He whispered to the maiden shy,
How far away his home did lie,
Beyond the mountain's tip;
Beyond the river rolling bright;
And he had far to go that night,
By barren hill, and wooded vale:—
The blacksmith on his hammer leant,
The boy above the bellows bent,
The fire died out; while both intent,
Hung on the traveller's tale.
And he had far to go that night,
By barren hill, and wooded vale:—
The blacksmith on his hammer leant,
The boy above the bellows bent,
The fire died out; while both intent,
Hung on the traveller's tale.
And still he spoke in gentle tone,
Unto the little child alone,
While glistened soft her eyes of blue,
“And art thou grieved because for me
The road outspreads so wearily?
Child, better should I weep for thee,
Thou art a traveller too.
Unto the little child alone,
While glistened soft her eyes of blue,
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The road outspreads so wearily?
Child, better should I weep for thee,
Thou art a traveller too.
“Life's journey long, before thee lies,
In summer heat, 'neath wintry skies,
A weary way thy foot must roam:
For every one who treads the earth,
In joy, or pain, in woe, or mirth,
Is but a traveller from his birth,
And all are going home.
In summer heat, 'neath wintry skies,
A weary way thy foot must roam:
For every one who treads the earth,
In joy, or pain, in woe, or mirth,
Is but a traveller from his birth,
And all are going home.
“Yet, on, my child, nor look behind,
But journey with an earnest mind:
God, and His angels give thee aid,
Till the long toilsome journey done,
Thou see at last at set of sun
That distant country duly won,
And rest within its shade.”
But journey with an earnest mind:
God, and His angels give thee aid,
Till the long toilsome journey done,
Thou see at last at set of sun
That distant country duly won,
And rest within its shade.”
The old man rose, and passed once more,
With feeble step the open door,
The child scarce bidding him to stay:
The blacksmith struck another blow,
The fire roused up, began to glow,
And still she stood, and murmured low,
“My home is far away.”
With feeble step the open door,
The child scarce bidding him to stay:
The blacksmith struck another blow,
The fire roused up, began to glow,
And still she stood, and murmured low,
“My home is far away.”
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