I Think My Sires Were Noble

I think my sires were noble, long ago;
I think they dwelt in idleness and pride,
Watching their acres and their money grow
And nobly doing nothing till they died.
Else how should I, whose father toiled all day,
Whose grandfathers were stanch, industrious men,
Be so inclined to put my pen away
When all my living rests upon that pen?
And why should I, whose father drank scant beer,
Whose grandfathers Jess whisky and less wine,
Hold in the most regard the drink most dear
And crave a bottle every time I dine?
And why should I, the heir of virtuous dames,
With ever-busy hands and shuttered hearts,
Have so bizarre a taste for witless games,
For folly, gossip, laughter, and the arts?
Why do I hate rcwarclful labor so.
Why do I loathe dim bacon and drab beans?
I think my sires were noble, long ago,
And left me all their tastes, without their means.