The Land Of Rainbow'S-End

Young Faintheart lay on a wayside bank, Full prey to doubts and fears, When he did espy come trudging by A Pilgrim bent with years. His back was bowed and his step was slow, But his faith no years could bend, As he eagerly pressed to the rose-lit west And the Land of Rainbow's-End.

"It's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray, "And a stout oak staff for friend, And it's over the hills and far away To the Land of Rainbow's-End!"

"Thou'rt old," young Faintheart cried, "thou'rt old, And there's many a league to go; And still thou seekest the pot of gold At the farther end of the bow." "I am old, I am old," said the Pilgrim gray, "But ever my way I'll wend To the rose-lit hills of the dying day And the Land of Rainbow's-End."

"Come, rest thee, rest thee by my side; Give o'er thy doomsday quest." "Have done, have done!" the Pilgrim cried: "The light wanes in the west. The road is long, but I shall not tire; I will lay my bones, God send, By the beautiful City of Heart's Desire, In the Land of Rainbow's-End."

"Then it's ho, for a pack!" sang the Pilgrim gray, "And a stout oak staff for friend, And it's over the hills and far away To the Land of Rainbow's-End."