country. 
With tott’ring steps he to the cottage moves: 
The wife within, who hears his hollow cough,
And patt’ring of iris stick upon the threshold,
Sends out her little boy to see who’s there. 
The child looks up to view the stranger’s face,
And seeing it enlighten’d with a smile,
Holds out his little hand to lead him in. 
Rous’d from her work, the mother turns her head,
And sees them, not ill-pleas’d.——­
The stranger whines not with a piteous tale,
But only asks a little, to relieve
A poor old soldier’s wants.——­
The gentle matron brings the ready chair,
And bids him sit, to rest his wearied limbs,
And warm himself before her blazing fire. 
The children, full of curiosity,
Flock round, and with their fingers in their mouths,
Stand staring at him; whilst the stranger, pleas’d,
Takes up the youngest boy upon his knee. 
Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet,
And prates, and laughs, and plays with his white locks. 
But soon the soldier’s face lays off its smiles;
His thoughtful mind is turn’d on other days,
When his own boys were wont to play around him,
Who now lie distant from their native land
In honourable, but untimely graves. 
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,