The Inn of the Silver Moon

What care if the day

Be turned to gray,

What care if the night come soon!

We may choose the pace

Who bow for grace

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Ah, hurrying Sirs,

Drive deep your spurs,

For it's far to the steepled town -

Where the wallet's weight

Shall fix your state

And buy for ye smile or frown.

Through our tiles of green

Do the stars between

Laugh down from the skies of June,

And there's naught to pay

For a couch of hay

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

You laboring lout,

Pull out, pull out,

With a hand to the creaking tire,

For it's many a mile

By path and stile

To the old wife crouched by the fire.

But the door is wide

In the hedgerow side,

And we ask not bowl nor spoon

Whose draught of must

Makes soft the crust

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Then, here's to the Inn

Of the empty bin,

To the Host of the trackless dune!

And here's to the friend

Of the journey's end

At the Inn of the Silver Moon.