The joy-ship’s merriest crew.
Can this be Bohemia, realm of mirth,
Where the grave and gay unite?
Where genius now finds its nobler birth
And shines with a lustre bright?
Men here tell stories, their pictures paint,
As they burn life’s flick’ring lamp;
They toil and they sweat, yea, mayhap they faint,
Yet with care they refuse to camp.
When hand grips hand in friendly grasp,