Song VIII [The Traveller Benighted And Lost]
by
I.
The traveller benighted and lost,
O’er the mountains pursues his lone way;
The stream is all candy’d with frost
And the icicle hangs on the spray,
He wanders in hope some kind shelter to find
“whilst thro’ the sharp hawthorn keen blows the cold wind.”
II.
The tempest howls dreary around
And rends the tall oak in its flight;
Fast falls the cold snow on the ground,
And dark is the gloom of the night.
Lone wanders the trav’ler a shelter to find,
“Whilst thro’ the sharp hawthorn still blows the cold wind.”
III.
No comfort the wild woods afford,
No shelter the trav’ler can see–
Far off are his bed and his board
And his home, where he wishes to be.
His hearth’s cheerful blaze still engages his mind
“Whilst thro’ the sharp haw thorn keen blows the cold wind.”