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MICHAEL VITKOVICS.
The sabbath comes round, and in holiday gear
I go to God's dwelling—then quietly steer
To the Kortsma,[1] where, cheer'd by a wine-loving brother,
We pledge a full glass, and we laugh with each other;
Get warm, and we call on the Gipsies to play.
I know of no care, roll the world as it may:
I nothing am owed, and to nobody owe—
Hurting none, none will hurt me—so smiling we go
On the rude path of life—when its labors are past,
Death will find us both ready and cheerful at last.
- ↑ Inu.
