Now musing o'er the changing scene
Farmers behind the tavern screen
Collect; with elbows idly press'd
On hob, reclines the corner's guest,
Reading the news to mark again
The bankrupt lists or price of grain.
Puffing the while his red-tipt pipe
He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe,
Yet, winter's leisure to regale,
Hopes better times, and sips his ale.
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He had scarcely gone a short league, when Fortune, that was
conducting his affairs from good to better, discovered read more
He had scarcely gone a short league, when Fortune, that was
conducting his affairs from good to better, discovered to him the
road, where he also espied an Inn. Sancho positively maintained
it was an Inn, and his master that it was a castle; and the
dispute lasted so long that they arrived there before it was
determined.
Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he read more
Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome, at an inn.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half hung.
What care if the day
Be turned to gray,
What care if the night come soon!
read more
What care if the day
Be turned to gray,
What care if the night come soon!
We may choose the pace
Who bow for grace,
At the Inn of the Silver Moon.
He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is.
O holy tavern! O read more
He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is.
O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern!--holy, because no carking
cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because
of the spits, which themselves turn round and round!
Where you have friends you should not go to inns.
Where you have friends you should not go to inns.
The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.
The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.
Where'er his fancy bids him roam,
In ev'ry Inn he finds a home--
. . . .
read more
Where'er his fancy bids him roam,
In ev'ry Inn he finds a home--
. . . .
Will not an Inn his cares beguile,
Where on each face he sees a smile?
There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so
much happiness is produced as by read more
There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so
much happiness is produced as by a good tavern of inn.
