Tavern

 I'll keep a little tavern
 Below the high hill's crest,
Wherein all grey-eyed people
 May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,
 And mugs to melt the chill
Of all the grey-eyed people
 Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,
 And dream his journey's end,
But I will rouse at midnight
 The falling fire to tend.

Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—
 But all the good I know
Was taught me out of two grey eyes
 A long time ago.

Form: Ballad

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