WE meet ’neath the sounding rafter, | |
| And the walls around are bare: | |
| As they shout back our peals of laughter, | |
| It seems as the dead were there. | |
| Then stand to your glasses!—steady! | 5 |
| We drink ’fore our comrades’ eyes; | |
| One cup to the dead already: | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Not here are the goblets glowing, | |
| Not here is the vintage sweet; | 10 |
| ’Tis cold as our hearts are growing, | |
| And dark as the doom we meet. | |
| But stand to your glasses!—steady! | |
| And soon shall our pulses rise. | |
| One cup to the dead already: | 15 |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| There’s many a hand that’s shaking, | |
| And many a cheek that’s sunk; | |
| But soon, though our hearts are breaking, | |
| They’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk. | 20 |
| Then stand to your glasses!—steady! | |
| ’Tis here the revival lies; | |
| Quaff a cup to the dead already: | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Time was when we laughed at others; | 25 |
| We thought we were wiser then. | |
| Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers, | |
| Who hope to see them again. | |
| No! Stand to your glasses!—steady! | |
| The thoughtless is here the wise; | 30 |
| One cup to the dead already: | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, | |
| Not a tear for the friends that sink; | |
| We’ll fall ’mid the wine-cup’s sparkles, | 35 |
| As mute as the wine we drink. | |
| Come! Stand to your glasses!—steady! | |
| ’Tis this that the respite buys; | |
| One cup to the dead already: | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | 40 |
| |
| Who dreads to the dust returning? | |
| Who shrinks from the sable shore, | |
| Where the high and haughty yearning | |
| Of the soul can sting no more? | |
| No! Stand to your glasses!—steady! | 45 |
| This world is a world of lies; | |
| One cup to the dead already: | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Cut off from the land that bore us, | |
| Betray’d by the land we find, | 50 |
| When the brightest are gone before us, | |
| And the dullest are left behind. | |
| Stand!—stand to your glasses!—steady! | |
| ’Tis all we have left to prize; | |
| One cup to the dead already: | 55 |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
