Now if Peter had minded his mother's command,
His fingers would not have been sore;
And he promis'd again, as she bound up his hand,
To play with hot pokers no more.
XXXI.
The Stranger.
Who knocks so loudly at the gate?
The night is dark, the hour is late,
And rain comes pelting down!
O, 'tis a stranger gone astray!
That calls to ask the nearest way
To yonder little town.
Why, tis a long and dreary mile
For one o'ercome with cold and toil;
Go to him, Charles, and say,
"Good stranger! here repose to-night,
And with the morning's earliest light,
We'll guide you on your way."