Classic Poem

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a;
A merry heart goes all the day,
And your sad heart tires in a mile-a.

Your paltry money-bags of gold
What need have we to stare for?
When little or nothing soon is told,
And we have the less to care for.

Cast away care, let sorrow cease,
A fig for melancholy;
Let's laugh and sing, or if you please,
We'll frolic with sweet Dolly.