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48
OVER THE VINE

Struggling onward for a paltry little prize.
O, it fills my heart with sorrow
This mad grasping for To-morrow,
While To-day from gold to purple dusks and dies.

Very often, when I'm drinking,
Of the old days I am thinking,
Of the good old days when living was a Joy.
When I see folk marching dreary
To the tune of Miserere—
Then I thank the Lord that I am still a Boy.

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