The Old Tin Can
There's a spring of sparkling water flowing out beneath the hill,
Where the trees are tall and shady and the robins sport at will,
As the breezes, soft and pleasant, in the summer's sultry heat,
Play about in cooling eddies where the light and shadows meet.
On a stone within the shadows sits a can of ancient tin,
With a band of rust about it and a coat of rust within;
But there's nothing God has given to appease the thirst of man
Like a cooling drink of water from that old tin can.
You may sip the rarest vintage from the sunny soil of Spain,
Quaff the purest ardent spirits malted from the golden grain,
Or consume a foaming tankard of the brewer's purest mead;
Drink the fine Italian liquors 'till your blood is warm indeed;
You may praise with fitting ardor, either French or native wine,
And all the ancient product of the Moselle or the Rhine;
But there's nothing more refreshing ever made since time began
Than a cooling drink of water from that old tin can.