A Drinking Song

Poor beggar, breathless in yon barn,

Who fears a mouse to move thy straw,

Must Conscience pester thee all night,

And fear oppress with thoughts of law?

O dearth of wine,

No sleep is thine.

Is Bacchus not the god of gods,

Who gives to Beauty's cheeks their shine?

O Love, thou art a wingless worm;

Wouldst thou be winged, fill thee with wine;

Fill thee with wine,

And wings be thine.

Then, Bacchus, rule thy merry race,

And laws like thine who would not keep?

And when fools weep to hear us laugh,

We’ll laugh, ha! ha! to see them weep.

O god of wine,

My soul be thine.