Well, Douglas, I'm sorry you've got to be homing,
Though I grant it's unwise to continue your roaming,
But the evening's to spare ere you drop me astern,
So come up to my room and indulge in a yarn.
Here's tobacco in plenty—"Gold Flake," very good;
No "Birdseye," or "Honeydew," that's understood.
But this isn't bad, though a stranger to you—
(Here is Dick: Bring up ginger and whiskey for two).
And now take a seat, there are two, as you see,
The red rocker for you and the other for me.
Don't demur, for no guests will arrive, I am sure;
If they do, why there's room on the bed or the floor.
So you're going to England again. Well, your visit
Has nigh made me homesick—no miracle, is it?
I was born there, and there I was nurtured and bred,
And I love the old land. (There's a match overhead).
It is four years ago, more than that, since I started
Away from my home. Well, I'm not chicken-hearted,
But your accent, your manner, the things you have said,
Have just taken me back to the life I once led.
And it seems there's a canker that Time will not heal,
Though I certainly thought that I never should feel
Its soreness again. I had settled down here,
Thinking happiness mine, till your lordship drew near.
And now, with your talk of the land of my birth,
All those sad recollections you rudely unearth.
Don't apologise, man, for I'm glad it is so,
There's a joy in the grief that I wouldn't forego.
There's a joy in remembering all that has been,
And recalling the pleasures that once I have seen;
And if bitterness follows, I'm ready to suffer,
For this morsel is sweet though the next may be tougher.
Let the fool in his folly anticipate sorrow,
I, for one, will refuse to take thought for the morrow.
There is joy in our life if we will but enjoy it;
But the most of us do what we can to destroy it.
For we fume and we worry and fret ourselves thin
By regret for what might be or what might have been;
And the blessings of life we incessantly miss
By ignoring entirely the pleasure that is.