The days are so short, late of the year –
Won’t you come on in ?
When the sun is down, and the frost is near,
And the gales begin.
But there’s always a shelter under our gable,
There’s always an extra chair at the table
For any stray stranger who’s hungry, and able
To pay us with only a grin.
The weather gets cold, this time of year –
We’re chilled to the skin.
It gets so hard to volunteer
And rattle the tin.
But there’s always a welcome here in our home
To help turn the grey to polychrome,
For unlucky souls who unwillingly roam,
While the wheels of fortune spin.
The season gets busy, every year,
And we just can’t win,
With the thanks so small, and the price so dear,
And our patience thin.
But there’s always a place at the table that’s set
For the unbidden guest coming in from the wet,
In time to remind what we often forget:
That there’s always room at the inn.