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A Tankard of Ale |
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My silver cup has wide smooth lips, And loves to have a deep carouse ;
He winks the firelight in my eyes, And pours contempt on empty vows.
O ! warm to body, cool to throat, And fragrant to the lips is gay
And jolly Beaune, that sings a tune To stories of old Rabelais.
A fool am I, for wine is waste,
And what the wise say I know well;
That he who spends his days in song Will pass eternity in hell.
Whene'er I hold within my palms A kingdom or a world of bliss,
The golden darlings melt between My cup-shaped hands' interstices.
Full many a sovereign have I thrown Into the vats of Southern France,
And all my golden guineas fall Into the laps of Song and Dance.
And lean, long faces look at me, And prophesy an evil doom ;
But when my day of reckoning comes, I'll lie safe-housed within my tomb,
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