When night steals up from the golden cup
And the cares of the day are done;
In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,
As we watch the dying sun;
Oh, memory strong with its ancient song
Goes back to the days of yore,
When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,
Where our foot in comfort sat;