George Arnold

A hackneyed burden, to a hackneyed air,— “I love thee only,—thou art wondrous fair!” Alas! the poets have worn the theme threadbare! Can I not find some words less tame and old, To paint thy form and face of perfect mould, Thy dewy lips, thy hair of brown and gold? Can I not sing in somewhat fresher strain The love I lavish and receive again,— The thrilling joy, so like to thrilling pain? Can I not, by some metaphor divine, Describe the life I quaff like nectared wine In being thine, and knowing thou art mine? Ah, no! this halting verse can naught express; No English words can half the truth confess, That have not all been rhymed to weariness! So let me cease my scribbling for to-day, And maiden, turn thy lovely face this way,— Words will not do, but haply kisses may!

Here, With my beer I sit, While golden moments flit: Alas! They pass Unheeded by: And, as they fly, I, Being dry, Sit, idly sipping here My beer. O, finer far Than fame, or riches, are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead,— My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,— Cigars and beer? Go, whining youth, Forsooth! Go, weep and wail, Sigh and grow pale, Weave melancholy rhymes On the old times, Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,— But leave me to my beer! Gold is dross,— Love is loss,— So, if I gulp my sorrows down, Or see them drown In foamy draughts of old nut-brown, Then do I wear the crown, Without the cross!