| |
| O, but life went gaily, gaily, | |
| In the house of Idiedaily! | |
| |
| There were always throats to sing | |
| Down the river-banks with spring, | |
| |
| When the stir of heart’s desire | 5 |
| Set the sapling’s heart on fire. | |
| |
| Bob-o-lincolns in the meadows, | |
| Leisure in the purple shadows, | |
| |
| Till the poppies without number | |
| Bow’d their heads in crimson slumber, | 10 |
| |
| And the twilight came to cover | |
| Every unreluctant lover. | |
| |
| Not a night but some brown maiden | |
| Better’d all the dusk she stray’d in, | |
| |
| While the roses in her hair | 15 |
| Bankrupted oblivion there. | |
| |
| O, but life went gaily, gaily, | |
| In the house of Idiedaily! | |
| |
| But this hostelry, The Barrow, | |
| With its chambers, bare and narrow, | 20 |
| |
| Mean, ill-window’d, damp, and wormy, | |
| Where the silence makes you squirmy, | |
| |
| And the guests are never seen to, | |
| Is a vile place, a mere lean-to, | |
| |
| Not a traveller speaks well of; | 25 |
| Even worse than I heard tell of, | |
| |
| Mouldy, ramshackle, and foul— | |
| What a dwelling for a soul! | |
| |
| O, but life went gaily, gaily, | |
| In the house of Idiedaily! | 30 |
| |
| There the hearth was always warm | |
| From the slander of the storm. | |
| |
| There your comrade was your neighbour, | |
| Living on to-morrow’s labour. | |
| |
| And the board was always steaming, | 35 |
| Though Sir Ringlets might be dreaming. | |
| |
| Not a plate but scoff’d at porridge, | |
| Not a cup but floated borage. | |
| |
| There were always jugs of sherry | |
| Waiting for the makers merry, | 40 |
| |
| And the dark Burgundian wine | |
| That would make a fool divine. | |
| |
| O, but life went gaily, gaily, | |
| In the house of Idiedaily! | |
| |
