Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!
There were always throats to sing
Down the river-banks with spring,
When the stir of heart's desire
Set the sapling's heart on fire.
Bobolincolns in the meadows,
Leisure in the purple shadows,
Till the poppies without number
Bowed their heads in crimson slumber,
And the twilight came to cover
Every unreluctant lover.
Not a night but some brown maiden
Bettered all the dusk she strayed in,
While the roses in her hair
Bankrupted oblivion there.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!
But this hostelry, The Barrow,
With its chambers, bare and narrow,
Mean, ill-windowed, damp, and wormy,
Where the silence makes you squirmy,
And the guests are never seen to,
Is a vile place, a mere lean-to,
Not a traveller speaks well of,
Even worse than I heard tell of,
Mouldy, ramshackle, and foul.
What a dwelling for a soul!
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly,
In the house of Idiedaily!
There the hearth was always warm,
From the slander of the storm.
There your comrade was your neighbor,
Living on to-morrow's labor.
And the board was always steaming,
Though Sir Ringlets might be dreaming.
Not a plate but scoffed at porridge,
Not a cup but floated borage.
There were always jugs of sherry
Waiting for the makers merry,
And the dark Burgundian wine
That would make a fool divine.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly
In the house of Idiedaily!