Classic Poem

Come fill me a glass, fill it high;
A bumper a bumper I'll have:
He's a fool that will flinch; I'll not bate an inch,
Though I drink myself into my grave.

Here's a health to all those jolly souls
Who like me will never give o'er;
Whom no danger controls, but will take off their bowls,
And merrily stickle for more.

Drown Reason, and all such weak foes,
I scorn to obey her command;
Could she ever suppose, I'd be led by the nose,
And let my glass idly stand?

Reputation's a bugbear to fools,
A foe to the joys of dear drinking,
Made use of by tools, who'd set us new rules,
And bring us to politic thinking.

Fill them all, I'll have six in a hand,
For I've trifled an age away;
'Tis in vain to command; the fleeting sand
Rolls on, and cannot stay.

Come, my Lads! move the glass; drink about;
We'll drink the universe dry;
We'll set foot to foot, and drink it all out;
If once we grow sober, we die.