_Let whoso will sing Bacchus' vine, We know a drink that's more divine;
'Tis white and innocent as doves,
Fragrant and bosom-white as love's
White bosom on a Summer day,
And fragrant as the hawthorn spray.
Let Dionysus and his crew,
Garlanded, drain their fevered brew,
And in the orgiastic bowl
Drug and besot the sacred soul;
This simple country cup we drain
Knows not the ghosts of sin and pain,
No fates or furies follow him
Who sips from its cream-mantled rim.
Yea! all his thoughts are country-sweet,
And safe the walking of his feet,
However hard and long the way—
With country sleep to end the day.
To drain this cup no man shall rue—
The innocent madness of the dew