Nor fret our hearts with longing after gin,
And bob saloons, and vanities beside,
That lead one to the shelving edge of sin ...
For wights who sit a-row along the pave,
With crackling skins, and drooping lives to save,
Beer is enough.
Beer is enough. Let Love roost on his perch,
And coo and coo his breath away at will ...
The bride in orange blooms—the ivied church—
The two-roomed kipsy sheltered by the hill ...