O’ Wanderer, tired and old,
vagabond of ancient times
roaming boldly the strange
unknown. Come forth friend.
From roaming you must feel cold,
so come and sit. Warming wines
may give you spirit. Fear no change.
By the dancing fire you may mend.
Surrounded by yellowing leaves,
brought by the Gracious Autumn.
So sit, and rest for a while here.
Fill your belly with food and wine.
Do not worry, there are no thieves,
no greater than those of Hell’s bottom.
Your foe is none other than your fear,
but to triumph you must cross that line.