The “fountain” on the sooted crane will sing the old, old song
Of common joys in homely vein forgotten, ah, too long.
The years have turned the rusted key, and time is on the jog,
Yet spend another night with me around the boree log.[[1]]
Now someone driving through the rain will happen in, I bet;
So fill the fountain up again, and leave the table set.
For this was ours with pride to say—and all the world defy—
No stranger ever turned away, no neighbour passed us by.
Bedad, he’ll have to stay the night; the rain is going to pour—
So make the rattling windows tight, and close the kitchen door,