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.