At last I have a Sabine farm
Abloom with shrubs and flowers;
And garlands gay I weave by day
Amid those fragrant bowers;
And yet, O fortune hideous,
I have no blooming Lydias;
And what, ah, what 's a Sabine farm to us without its Lydias?

Within my cottage is a room
Where I would fain be merry;
Come one and all unto that hall,
Where you 'll be welcome, very!
I 've a butler who 's Hibernian —
But no, I 've no Falernian!
And what, ah, what 's a Sabine farm to you without Falernian?

Upon this cosey Sabine farm
What breeds my melancholy?
Why is my Muse down with the blues
Instead of up and jolly?
A secret this between us:
I 'm shy of a Maecenas!
And what 's, oh, what 's a Sabine farm to me without Maecenas!