The White Hare Inn

If e'er a weary sailor
Needs a place to rest their head
They look upon the White Hare Inn
Where weathered souls are fed

The hearth is always crackling
They're never short of stew
'Tis right atop a battered rock
Above the ocean blue

Ages long the inn there stood
Built from beams of ancient wood
They tried to burn it, never could
And so the Hare remains

If e'er your feet are aching
And the road ne'er seems to end
Leave your cares and rest ye there
Amidst a host of friends