And fill and drain—again—again—
Till the smoking wassails fail,
Then hurl the bowl at the trembling host,
Drink! for tonight we sail.
The sleet beats down like a rain of blows
On a coat of iron mail.
And faint and thin through the ringing din
Is heard the lookout’s hail,—
But it’s up and up with the foaming cup,
Drink! for tonight we sail.