WE meet ’neath the sounding rafter, | |
| And the walls around are bare; | |
| As they shout to our peals of laughter, | |
| It seems that the dead are there. | |
| But stand to your glasses, steady! | 5 |
| We drink to our comrades’ eyes; | |
| Quaff a cup to the dead already— | |
| And hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Not here are the goblets glowing, | |
| Not here is the vintage sweet; | 10 |
| ’T is 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; | |
| A cup to the dead already— | 15 |
| 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, midst the wine-cup’s sparkles, | |
| As mute as the wine we drink. | 20 |
| So stand to your glasses, steady! | |
| ’T is this that the respite buys; | |
| One cup to the dead already— | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Time was when we frowned at others; | 25 |
| We thought we were wiser then; | |
| Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers, | |
| Who hope to see them again. | |
| No! stand to your glasses, steady! | |
| The thoughtless are here the wise; | 30 |
| A cup to the dead already— | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| There ’s many a hand that ’s shaking, | |
| There ’s many a cheek that ’s sunk; | |
| But soon, though our hearts are breaking, | 35 |
| They ’ll burn with the wine we ’ve drunk. | |
| So stand to your glasses, steady! | |
| ’T is here the revival lies; | |
| A cup to the dead already— | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | 40 |
| |
| There ’s a mist on the glass congealing, | |
| ’T is the hurricane’s fiery breath; | |
| And thus does the warmth of feeling | |
| Turn ice in the grasp of Death. | |
| Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! | 45 |
| For a moment the vapor flies; | |
| A cup to the dead already— | |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Who dreads to the dust returning? | |
| Who shrinks from the sable shore, | 50 |
| Where the high and haughty yearning | |
| Of the soul shall sting no more! | |
| Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! | |
| The world is a world of lies; | |
| A cup to the dead already— | 55 |
| Hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
| Cut off from the land that bore us, | |
| Betrayed by the land we find, | |
| Where the brightest have gone before us, | |
| And the dullest remain behind— | 60 |
| Stand, stand to your glasses, steady! | |
| ’T is all we have left to prize; | |
| A cup to the dead already— | |
| And hurrah for the next that dies! | |
| |
