Over the Wine


 * VERY often, when I'm drinking,
 * Of the old days I am thinking,

Of the good old days when living was a Joy,
 * And each morning brought new Pleasure,
 * And each night brought Dreams of Treasure,

And I thank the Lord that I was once a Boy.


 * When I hear the old hands spinning
 * Yarns of gold there was for winning

In the Roaring Days, that now so silent are,
 * And my brain is whirling, reeling
 * With their legends, comes the feeling

That the Rainbow Gold I knew was finer far;


 * For not all the trains in motion,
 * All the ships that sail the ocean,

With their cargoes; all the money in the mart—
 * Could purchase for an hour
 * Such a treasure as the Flower,

As the Flower of Hope that blossomed in my heart.


 * Now I sit, and smile, and listen
 * To my friends whose eyes still glisten,

Though their beards are showing threads of silver-grey,
 * As they talk of Fame and Glory—
 * The old, old pathetic story—

While they drink “Good luck” to luck that keeps away.


 * When I hear a politician
 * Speak of honors and position,

And the time to come when he will sit on high,
 * Then I feel a sovran pity
 * For this species of banditti,

Raising trouble while the golden time goes by.


 * Long ago I did discover
 * It was fine to be a lover,

But the heartache and the worry spoil the game;
 * Now I think, like an old vandal,
 * That the game's not worth the candle—

And I know some other vandals think the same.


 * And I hate the cant of striving,
 * Slaving, planning, and contriving,

Struggling onward for a paltry little prize.
 * O, it fills my heart with sorrow
 * This mad grasping for To-morrow,

While To-day from gold to purple dusks and dies.


 * Very often, when I'm drinking,
 * Of the old days I am thinking,

Of the good old days when living was a Joy.
 * When I see folk marching dreary
 * To the tune of Miserere—

Then I thank the Lord that I am still a Boy.