Beer | The Poetry Foundation

Here,

With my beer

I sit,

While golden moments flit:

Alas!

They pass

Unheeded by:

And, as they fly,

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!

Source: Drift: A Sea-Shore Idyl and Other Poems (1866)