(To an air of Schubert)

     Give to me the life I love,
          Let the lave go by me,
     Give the jolly heaven above
          And the byway nigh me.

     Bed in the bush with stars to see,
          Bread I dip in the river ­
     There’s the life for a man like me,
          There’s the life for ever.

     Let the blow fall soon or late,
          Let what will be o’er me;
     Give the face of earth around,
          And the road before me.

     Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
          Nor a friend to know me;
     All I ask, the heaven above
          And the road below me.

Every one who has been upon a walking or a boating tour, living in the open air, with the body in constant exercise and the mind in fallow, knows true ease and quiet.  The irritating action of the brain is set at rest; we think in a plain, unfeverish temper; little things seem big enough, and great things no longer portentous; and the world is smilingly accepted as it is.

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.  I travel for travel’s sake.  The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come down off this feather-bed of civilisation, and find the globe granite under foot and strewn with cutting flints.  Alas, as we get up in life, and are more preoccupied with our affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must be worked for.  To hold a pack upon a pack-saddle against a gale out of the freezing north is no high industry, but it is one that serves to occupy and compose the mind.  And when the present is so exacting who can annoy himself about the future?