As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn,
Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.
When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed
With humour and deviltry shone,
And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed,
Had mirth in its every tone.
Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry bumper we drain
But renders thy image more dear,
As the bottle goes round, and again and again,
We wish, from our hearts, you were here.