Pure water is the best of gifts that man to man can bring, But who am I that I should have the best of anything? Let princes revel at the pump, let peers with ponds make free, Whisky, or wine, or even beer is good enough for me.
Since all the riches of this world May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshipped the devil If I thanked my God for worldly things.
What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile; In vain with lavish kindness The gifts of God are strown; The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone.
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away: poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene That men call age, and those who would have been Their sons, they gave their immortality.