Classic Poem

I' VE oft been asked by prosing souls
—And men of sober tongue,
What joys there are in draining bowls
—And tippling all night long?
But though these cautious knaves I scorn,
—For once I'll not disdain
To tell them why I drink till morn
—And fill my glass again.

'Tis by the glow my bumper gives
—Life's picture's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
—And softly sinks the shade:
Some happier tint still rises there
—With every drop I drain,
And that I think's a reason fair
—To fill my glass again.

My muse, too, when her wings are dry,
—No frolic flight will take,
But round the bowl she'll dip and fly
—Like swallows round a lake;
Then if the nymphs will have their share
—Before they'll bless their swain,
Why that I think's a reason fair
—To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes through,
—Run every pleasure down
'Mid each extreme of folly, too,
—And lived with half the town;
For me there's nothing new or rare
—Till wine deceives my brain,
And that I think's a reason fair
—To fill my glass again.

There's many a lad I knew is dead,
—And many a lass grown old,
And as the lesson strikes my head
—My weary heart grows cold;
But wine awhile drives off despair,
—Nay, bids a hope remain,
Why, that I think's a reason fair
—To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass
—And sit with sober air,
I'm posed by some dull reasoning ass
—Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder still, am doomed to bear
—Some coxcomb's fribbling strain,
And that I'm sure's a reason fair
—To fill my glass again.

Though hipped and vexed at England's fate
—In these convulsive days,
I can't endure the ruined state
—My sober eye surveys;
But through the bottle's dazzling glare
—The gloom is seen less plain,
And that I think's a reason fair
—To fill my glass again.