The Gourd

In the heavy earth the miner     Toiled and laboured day by day,     Wrenching from the miser mountain     Brilliant treasure where it lay.     And the artist worn and weary     Wrought with labour manifold     That the king might drink his nectar     From a goblet made of gold.     On the prince's groaning table     Mid the silver gleaming bright     Mirroring the happy faces     Giving back the flaming light,     Shine the cups of priceless crystal     Chased with many a lovely line,     Glowing now with warmer colour,     Crimsoned by the ruby wine.     In a valley sweet with sunlight,     Fertile with the dew and rain,     Without miner's daily labour,     Without artist's nightly pain,     There there grows the cup I drink from,     Summer's sweetness in it stored,     And my lips pronounce a blessing     As they touch an old brown gourd.     Why, the miracle at Cana     In the land of Galilee,     Tho' it puzzles all the scholars,     Is no longer strange to me.     For the poorest and the humblest     Could a priceless wine afford,     If they 'd only dip up water     With a sunlight-seasoned gourd.     So a health to my old comrade,     And a song of praise to sing     When he rests inviting kisses     In his place beside the spring.     Give the king his golden goblets,     Give the prince his crystal hoard;     But for me the sparkling water     From a brown and brimming gourd!