Here, with my beer I sit, While golden moments flit: Alas! They pass Unheeded by: And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit, idly sipping here My beer. O, finer far Than fame, or riches, are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead,— My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,— Cigars and beer? Go, whining youth, Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear, But leave to me my beer! Gold is dross,— Love is loss,— So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown, Without the cross!
Beer
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