But a lofty hope, for the spirit’s wear,
In a yard of clay is found,
Puffing all our cares away,
A fine old thing is the yard of clay.
God Bacchus hath many a trophy won,
From the pipe for his glorious shrine,
And till his career on the earth is done,
It ever must be divine.
It heeds not the frowns of the rich or poor,
It beareth no factions sway,