And sometimes apple-jack fine as silk.
But, whatever the tipple has been,
We shared it together, in bane or bliss,
And I warm to you friend, when I think of this—
We have drank from the same canteen.
The rich and the great sit down to dine,
And they quaff to each other in sparkling wine,
From glasses of crystal and green.
But I guess in their golden potations they miss
The warmth of regard to be found in this—