That promised spot of domestic ground?
Tell me, oh! where is that happy shore
Where we all shall settle, and starve no more;
Not here, not here, my man!
Where father shall sit ’neath his sheltering vine,
And smoke his own pipe, and drink his wine,
And mother and sisters, at tea in the shade,
Bless the rosy bowers their hands have made;
While the cow untethered, and ranging free,
Crops the summer wealth of our acres three?