When Now Cold Winter'S Snows Are Fled, And Birds Sing Blithe Again, Look Where The Gipsy'S Tent Is Spread, In The Green Village Lane. Oft By The Old Park Pales, Beneath The Branches Of The Oak, The Watchdog Barks, When, In Slow Wreath, Curls O'Er The Woods The Smoke. No Home Receives The Wandering Race; The Panniered Ass Is Nigh, Which Patient Bears From Place To Place Their Infant Progeny. Lo! Houseless O'Er The World They Stray, But I At Home Will Dwell, Where I May Read My Book And Pray, And Hear The Sabbath-Bell.