They've but one joy—the joy of getting gold.
In nature's wondrous charms they've no delight,
The one thing beautiful for them is—gold.
Thoughts of the great of old which books contain,
The poet's and the historian's fervid page,
Or all the wonders science brings to light,
For them exist not. They've no time to spend
In such amusements: 'Time,' say they, 'is gold.'
And if they hear of some immortal deed,
Some noble sacrifice of power or fortune