Of mirth 'tis the spring and the fountain,
And Helicon's stream to the Muse;
The pleasantest dew of the mountain—
So give it, good fellows, its dues.
It opens the heart of the miser,
And conjures up truth from the knave;
It makes my Lord Bishop look wiser,—
More frisky the curate, his slave.
It makes the glad spirit still gladder,
And moistens the splenetic vein;