Joan o' the Wad from her own folk goes
With a garland woven of gipsy-rose; 
The palms of her hands and the palms of her feet 
Are dark with the stain of bitter-sweet. 
Here and there in her tresses brown 
Tosses a feather of thistle-down: 
About her waist for a girdle green 
She has threaded buds of the argentine. 

Between her breasts for a posy fair,
She has set a handful of maidenhair; 
About her neck for a torque of gold 
A chain of buttercups, fold on fold 
She has bound and wound; and she looks like spring — 
Joan o' the Wad gone wandering 
From the wild brown moor to the deep-walled town, 
Joan o' the Wad in her lime-green gown. 

The apple-bird on the apple-bough 
Whistles with no one to fret him now, 
With cry and chirrup more shrill and clear 
Than his own love-song in the spring o' the year. 
The laden bees going back to the hive 
Joan o' the Wad no more will drive: 
The peach grows red and the pear grows dun, 
With none to cover them up from the sun. 

She has left the cattle unmilked in chall; 
And the miners laugh as they go to bal. 
No more afraid of her pisky eyes 
Where life like the lightning comes and dies — 
And sorrow moves like a leaf, astir 
In a pool where the wind has drownéd her; 
And laughter leaps as the bubbles come 
On fishless ponds covered thick with scum. 

But lads at twilight are fain to hear 
A soft word said in their listening ear; 
And fain to see what they see no more — 
A green gown gleam by the stable-door. 
For towns are many and towns are full; 
But here in the country the water's cool, 
And honey's sweet and the hearts are deep. 
And the Pisky-loves are the loves to keep. 

Come! let Mirth our hours employ,
The jolly God inspires;
The rosy juice our bosom fires,
And tunes our souls to joy.
See, great Bacchus now descending,
Gay, with blushing honours crown'd;
Sprightly Mirth and Love attending,
Around him wait,
In smiling state —
Let Echo resound,
Let Echo resound
The joyful news all around.

Fond Mortals come, if love perplex,
In Wine relief you'll find;
Who'd whine for womens giddy sex
More fickle than the wind?
If beauty's bloom thy fancy warms,
Here, see her shine,
Cloath'd in superior charms;
More lovely than the blushing morn,
When first the op'ning day
Bedecks the thorn,
And makes the meadows gay.
Here see her in her crystal shrine;
See and adore; confess her all divine,
The Queen of Love and Joy.
Heed not thy Chloe's scorn—
This sparkling glass,
With winning grace,
Shall ever meet thy fond embrace,
And never, never, never cloy,
No never, never cloy.

Here, Poet! see, Castalia's spring—
Come, give me a bumper, I'll mount to the skies,
Another, another—'Tis done! I arise;
On fancy's wing,
I mount, I sing,
And now, sublime,
Parnassus' lofty top I climb —
But hark! what sounds are these I hear,
Soft as the dream of her in love,
Or Zephyr's whisp'ring thro' the Grove?
And now, more solemn far than fun'ral woe,
The heavy numbers flow!
And now again,
The varied strain,
Grown louder and bolder, strikes quick on the ear,
And thrills thro' ev'ry vein.

'Tis Pindar's song!
His softer notes the fanning gales
Waft across the spicy vales,
While, thro' the air,
Loud whirlwinds bear
The harsher notes along.
Inspir'd by Wine,
He leaves the lazy croud below,
Who never dar'd to peep abroad,
And, mounting to his native sky,
For ever there shall shine.
No more I'll plod
The beaten road;
Like him inspir'd, like him I'll mount on high;
Like his my strain shall sow.

Haste, ye Mortals! leave your sorrow;
Let pleasure crown to day—to morrow
Yield to fate.
Join the universal chorus,
Bacchus reigns,
Ever great;
Bacchus reigns
Ever glorious—
Hark! the joyful groves rebound,
Sporting breezes catch the sound,
And tell to hill and dale around —
"Bacchus reigns"
While far away,
The busy Echoes die away.