But ’tis the time we love the best,
When earthly things are all at rest,
And sweet the hours glide
Down time’s fast flowing tide,
Nor daylight’s pomp, nor pride,
Invades our fireside;
And should, perchance, my fickle Muse be shy,
And choose to tarry in her native sky,
Why, even then, I’ll not to others fly;
I think myself the best of company.