How Strange a Thing

How strange a thing to think upon:
Whilst we sit here with pipes and wine
This world of ours goes roving on
Where stars and planets shine.
And round and round and round and round
This brave old ball, still out and in—
Whilst we sit still on solid ground—
Doth spin and spin and spin.

And, whilst we're glad with pipes and wine,
We travel leagues and leagues of space:
Our arbour's trellised with the vine,
Our host's a jocund face.
Yet on and on and on
This brave old ball spins in and out:
Why, here's a thing to think upon
And make a song about.

Ho, landlord, bring new wine along
And fill us each another cup.
We're minded to give out a song.
My journey, mates; stand up.
For round and round and round and round
This noble ball doth spin and spin,
And ' twixt the firmament and ground
Doth bear us and our sin.