Classic Poem

Home, thank God, but like to fall
O'er the threshold of the door;
I can hardly walk at all,
And could not a half-mile more.
Oh! how weary are my feet!
And I'm spent with dust and heat.
Bit of meat? No; give me first
Just some tea to quench my thirst.
No; not wine — e'er so fine.
No; not gold — heap'd untold;
But a cup or two of tea.

With what heavy steps I put
On the ground my last two miles,
Lifting each lead-heavy foot
O'er the road and over stiles.
At the best I fain would stop,
But at hills was like to drop;
Leaving pretty sights behind
That no more could take my mind.
No; not hills. No; not mills.
Not a thing, but a spring,
Whence I drank, but wish'd for tea.

I was glad to leave so well
All within my sister's door;
But I'm sure I cannot tell
How to reach her any more;
For to me, if I must beat
Longsome ways in burning heat,
Why 'tis worth the very grounds
Just to toil athwart their bounds.
No; not now, land or cow.
No; not here, park or deer,
By my little pot of tea.