An amber stream the gods might sip,
And fear no morrow's parched lip.
But therefore, gods? Those idle toys
Were soulless to real Canadian boys!
What classic goblet ever felt
Such thrilling touches through it melt,
As throb electric along a straw,
When the boyish lips the cider draw?
The years are heavy with weary sounds,
And their discords life's sweet music drowns
But yet I hear, oh, sweet! oh, sweet!
The rill that bathed my bare, brown feet;
And yet the cider drips and falls
On my inward ear at intervals
And I lead at times in a sad, sweet dream
To the bubbling of that little stream;
And I sit in a visioned autumn still,
In the sunny door of the cider mill.