(While the lightning flasheth.)

Here's one to our lasses,
How nimbly they dance!
And the bright of our glasses
Is the light of their glance.

(And the revellers.)

Here's one to the vintry,
How brightly he shines!
May never the wintry,
Drink deep of his wines.

(The Orator)

(He rolleth his parchment and speaketh.)

"'Tis young blood counts and moneyless brains!
And the heart and soul of devil-may-care
Is abroad in the land, with a fig for the pains,
To do and to dare! to do and to dare!"

(The Revellers.)

(While the storm rageth.)

Ah! the clink of our glasses,
How they clink as we drink!
And memory passes.
Too pleasant to think.