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Beer by George Arnold

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    With my beer 
I sit, 
While golden moments flit: 
    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! 
    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, 
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!
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