If solid happiness we prize, within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam; the world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut-our home.
If solid happiness we prize, within our breast this jewel lies, And they are fools who roam; the world has nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut-our home.
