I'm thankful that as matters go
I neither toil nor spin,
But read the good old wits, heigh ho!
And live with elder kin;
That I need neither reap nor sow
Nor gather into barns,
But dwell among my books, heigh ho!
Repeating ancient yarns.
Dead things are not my science, no,
Nor fossil parts of speech,
But the great human heart, heigh ho!
That pedants never reach.
The record of man's joy and woe
Upon his sculptured face
I read by my heart's light, heigh ho!
And vanquish time and space.
I find no vice so foul and low
But nature lurks therein,
Nor any thought so high, heigh ho!
But pays the price of sin.
I feel the pity and the glow
Of truth's sublime communion,
And learn to smile at fate, heigh ho!
In friendship's happy union.
Let this but last till death's wind blow
And till my bones are rotten,
Then let the world sail on, heigh ho!
And be ray name forgotten.
“Now you, votary of pleasure,”
Turning to the next, I said,
“Count the profit of your leisure
And the cost of unearned bread.
Tell us what civilisation
Merits your impartial praise,
In what climate, in what nation
You have spent most joyous days.”
Quoth he, as if in admiration
That such questions I should raise: