Though past the days of comb and soap and seeming long past cure,
The drunkard's dream is full of hope, the drunkard's dream is pure;
He sees himself well dressed and clean, and needing no man's aid,
And all things as they should have been—and all his debts are paid.

He sees the cottage known as “Ours”, the cock-and-hennery,
The kitchen garden and the flowers and ducks of Muscovy.
He goes to church in sinful pride when his week's work is done,
And, proudly walking by his side, his daughter and his son.

They seek the mountains once a year, and once the sea-coast too;
There's nothing to regret nor fear, and all his skies are blue.
He feels his wife's arms round his neck and sees, with eyes grown dim,
His hand stretched out to help a Wreck who had been kind to him . . . .