‘But thousands should not tempt me here to stay.’
‘I’d not live here,’ says Teague, ‘among the Craters;
‘Give me dear Ireland, Whiskey and Paraters.’
Taking his Breakfast.
Thus time beguil’d in social chat was past,
When John reflected he’d not broke his Fast.
When from the Road a narrow path he took,
And gain’d a Rocky Bank, hard by a Brook.
For now friend Sol had his meridian got—