  If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, Could, more than drinking, my cares compose, A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow would end my woes. But as in wailing there's nought availing, And Death unfailing will strike the blow, Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go! To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger, In every danger my course I've run; Now hope all ending, and death befriending, His last aid lending, my cares are done; My griefs are over—my glass runs low; Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go! John Philpot Curran |
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