I'LL never be rich.
I'm too fond of the joy
Of a certain small girl
And a certain small boy;
And the nights full of fun
And the days full of play,
And the romp and the run
At the end of the day.

I'll never be rich.
I'm too eager to share
In the joys that are near,
Too unwilling to care
For the thing we call gold,
That I'll fill every day
Full of strife for the stuff,
And not rest by the way.

I'll never be rich.
There are too many charms
That I now can possess
When I stretch out my arms;
There are too many joys
That already I hold
That I cannot give up
Just to wallow in gold.