Fain (could it be) would I a home obtain,
And warm me by a hearth-side of my own.
Then, then, I'd sing about the sweet birds' strain,
And fields and flowers, as I have whilome done;
And paint in song the lily and the rose
That dwell upon her cheek who smiles on me.
But lone I stray -- no home its comfort shows:
Ah, luckless man! still doom'd a guest to be!