All things are nice when they are new, When they are old, all things are horrid. After the storm I like the blue, After the arctic zone the torrid.
My loves are many, brief, and true, By mutual jealousy unworried. I like to leave my house and home And cross the mountains and the sea;
With one small bag on earth to roam, That is the height of bliss for me. To roam on earth without my bag, That is the depth of misery.
That freedom cheats us with a word Which sets up knaves and murders kings. What soul is free that never stirred? Go cut your mother's apron-strings,
And putting money in your purse, Fly off on the express-train's wings. I'll stay at home when I am lame, And build a church when stuffed with gold,
I will be grave when known to fame, I will be chaste when I am old. Then all the angels will rejoice That I, lost lamb, regain the fold.
“Without some evil, nothing good,” Your subtle theologians say. I glorify their rectitude By straying in my artless way.
My needful sins make possible The higher morals of the day. This is our only chance to taste The sweet and bitter fruits of earth.
To pluck them all, we've need of haste; We cannot ask what each is worth. Up, up, wise virgin; do not waste The little time‘ twixt death and birth.
Come feel the joy of changing skies, Of rushing streams and windy weather. Though we be bound by fortune's ties, We’ ll to the utmost stretch the tether,
And be they gay or be they sad, We'll go and see the sights together.
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