Running to Paradise — W. B. Yeats

As I came over Windy GapThey threw a halfpenny into my cap,For I am running to Paradise;And all that I need do is to wishAnd somebody puts his hand in the dishTo throw me a bit of salted fish:And there the king is but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn outWith skelping his big brawling lout,And I am running to Paradise;A poor life do what he can,And though he keep a dog and a gun,A serving maid and a serving man:And there the king is but as the beggar.

Poor men have grown to be rich men,And rich men grown to be poor again,And I am running to Paradise;And many a darling wit's grown dullThat tossed a bare heel when at school,Now it has filled an old sock full:And there the king is but as the beggar.

The wind is old and still at playWhile I must hurry upon my way,For I am running to Paradise;Yet never have I lit on a friendTo take my fancy like the windThat nobody can buy or bind:And there the king is but as the beggar.