The door has lost its hinges, the barn has tumbled down,
But the old road down to Plymouth, the only road in town,
Winds in and out the bluets, the butterflies and hay;
I’ve sometimes made the journey a dozen times a day.
And yonder lies the vision, a sheltered, calm retreat,
For the old road down to Plymouth is a balm for weary feet.
ROSE OF PLYMOUTH.
(THE SABBATIA).
By the fairy-gods who nursed thee,
Suns and satellites grown cold,