Before the world grew wise and bent
In sad, decadent attitude.
To these each waking is a birth
That makes them heir to all the earth,
Singing, for pure abandoned mirth,
Non nonny non, hey nonny no.
Perchance ye meet them in the mart,
In fashion's toil or folly's throe,
And yet their souls are far apart
Where primrose winds from uplands blow.