The Death of Wolfe (n.d.)/Stay, Traveller, Tarry

For other versions of this work, see "Stay, traveller, tary here to-night".
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STAY, TRAVELLER, TARRY.

Stay, traveller, tary here to-night,The rain yet bents, the wind is loud,The moon too has withdrawn her light,And gone to sleep behind a cloud.'Tis seven long miles across the moor,And should you from our cottage stray,You'll meet, I fear, no friendly door,No soul to tell the ready way.
Come, dearest Kate, the meal prepare,This stranger shall partake our best;A cake and rasher be his fare,With ale that makes the weary blest.Approach the hearth, there take a place,And, till the hour of rest draws nigh,Of Robin Hood, and Chevy Chace,We'll sing, then to our pallets hie.Had I the means I'd use you well;'Tis little I have got to boast; ​But should you of our cottage tell,Say, Hal the Woodman was your host.

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