Sunday up the River.
105
As I lie, as I lie,
The hours fold their wings beneath the sky;
As you lean, as you lean,
In that trance of perfect love and bliss serene.
O friends, your best years to the oar
Like galley-slaves devoting,
This is and shall be evermore
The true sublime of boating!
As I lie, as I lie,
The hours fold their wings beneath the sky;
As you lean, as you lean,
In that trance of perfect love and bliss serene.
VIII.
The water is clear as crystal;
And water's a noble liquid, sure;—
But look at my pocket-pistol!
Tim Boyland gave it me, one of two
The rogue brought back from Dublin;
With a jar of the genuine stuff: hurroo!
How deliciously it comes bubblin'!
