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| CONTENTED I am, and contented I’ll be, | |
| For what can this world more afford, | |
| Than a lass who will sociably sit on my knee, | |
| And a cellar as sociably stored, | |
| My brave boys? | 5 |
| |
| My vault door is open, descend and improve, | |
| That cask,—aye, that we will try; | |
| ’Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love, | |
| And as bright as her cheeks to the eye, | |
| My brave boys. | 10 |
| |
| In a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck, | |
| ’Twill light us each bottle to hand; | |
| The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke, | |
| As I hate that bumper should stand, | |
| My brave boys. | 15 |
| |
| Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, | |
| I gallop the brusher along; | |
| Like grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow’s god, | |
| And a sentiment give, or a song, | |
| My brave boys. | 20 |
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| We are dry where we sit, though the oozing drops seem | |
| With pearls the moist walls to emboss; | |
| From the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, | |
| Like stucco-work cut of moss, | |
| My brave boys. | 25 |
| |
| When the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines, | |
| Which, when moisture is wanting, decays; | |
| Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines, | |
| Or else there’s an end of my blaze, | |
| My brave boys. | 30 |
| |
| Sound those pipes,—they’re in tune, and those bins are well filled, | |
| View that heap of old Hock in your rear; | |
| Yon bottles are Burgundy! mark how they’re piled, | |
| Like artillery, tier over tier, | |
| My brave boys. | 35 |
| |
| My cellar’s my camp, and my soldiers my flasks, | |
| All gloriously ranged in review; | |
| When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks | |
| As kingdoms I’ve yet to subdue, | |
| My brave boys. | 40 |
| |
| Like Macedon’s madman, my glass I’ll enjoy, | |
| Defying hyp, gravel, or gout; | |
| He cried when he had no more worlds to destroy, | |
| I’ll weep when my liquor is out, | |
| My brave boys. | 45 |
| |
| On their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly will I, | |
| When reeling, I roll on the floor; | |
| Then my legs must be lost, so I’ll drink as I lie, | |
| And dare the best buck to do more, | |
| My brave boys. | 50 |
| |
| ’Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be shed, | |
| No Hic jacet be cut on my stone; | |
| But pour on my coffin a bottle of red, | |
| And say that his drinking is done, | |
| My brave boys! | 55 |
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