And their mute carols fondly throw
The sacred raptures o'er my heart;
Until my locks are thin and gray
Deep in my soul will sound alway,
And full of joy will ever spring
The songs that mother used to sing.
"QUAFF THE GLASS, THE WINE IS RED."
Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
And the rose of youth is glowing,
While the toils of life are fled