Faint and wearily, the way-worn traveller
Plods uncheerily, afraid to stop;
Wandering drearily, a sad unraveller
Of the mazes t'ward the mountain’s top.
​Doubting, fearing, while his course he's steering ,
⁠Cottages appearing, as he's nigh to drop;
O! how briskly then the way-worn traveller
⁠Treads the maizes t'ward the mountain's top.

Though so melancholy day has pass'd by,
⁠'Twould be folly now to think on't more;
Blythe and jolly he the cag holds fast by,
⁠As he's sitting at the goat-herd's door:
Eating, quaffing—at past labours laughing—
⁠Better far, by half, in spirits than before
O! how merrily the rested traveller
⁠Seems, while sitting at the goat-herd's door.