What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.
When April scatters charms of primrose gold
Among the copper leaves in thickets old,
And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,
To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;
I hear leaves drinking rain;
I hear rich leaves on top
Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop;
Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.