LET the world run round,
Let the world run round,
And know neither end nor station.
Our glory is the test
Of a merry, merry breast,
In this little quiet nation.

We eat, we drink, we laugh, we sing,
To-morrow freely comes and goes,
We strike up music's gentle string,
And understand no other blows.

If any sour, unhallow'd breath,
Our harmless sports should dare defile,
Let that man fall in love with death,
Whilst we the griefs of life beguile.

What though our peace much envy'd be,
Our fears they need not to increase,
For ev'ry where abroad we see
That men do even fight for peace.

Thus, from all enemies secure,
Our heads and hearts as light as air,
Not made the heavy yoke t' endure
Of too much wealth or too much care.

Gold, and the troubled strife for gold,
Are evils unto us unknown:
Our clothing's neither gay nor cold,
It covers us, and it's our own.

We do not liberty contrive
Ourselves in bondage for to bring,
As birds to snare do haste alive,
By the loose freedom of the wing.

Our shepherds on their reeds do play,
Charming their sweethearts and their sheep,
Neither of which do go astray,
By Nature taught their bounds to keep.

The Master of these festive sports,
Commander of the truest hearts,
Takes to himself the serious thoughts,
And leaves to us the merry parts.

So now, good Master, health to thee!
And, if there's one who will not pass
The cup, let him hence banished be,
To quench his thirst in the Dhoo-Glas.

Let the world run round, etc.