The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.

Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.

Threatened folk live long.

Time rolls his ceaseless course.

It is the privilege of tale-tellers to open their story in an inn, the free rendezvous of all travellers, and where the humour of each displays itself, without ceremony or restraint.

To all, to each, a fair good-night, and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.

To the timid and hesitating everything is impossible because it seems so.