CHANT.

Time—old Time—whither away?

Linger a moment with us, I pray;

Too soon thou spreadest thy wings for flight;

Dip, boy, dip

In the bowl thy lip,

And be jolly, old Time, with us to-night.

Dip, dip, &c.

Time—old Time—thy scythe fling down;

Garland thy pate with a myrtle crown,

And fill thy goblet with rosy wine;—

Fill, fill up,

The joy-giving cup,

Fill, fill, &c.

Time—old Time—sighing is vain,

Pleasure from thee not a moment can gain;

Fly, old greybeard, but leave us your glass

To fill as we please,

And drink at our ease,

And count by our brimmers the hours as they pass.