And Death may take the race we make,
And check our gallant flight:
But even he must play his part,
And tho' the look he wears be grim,
We 'll drink a toast to him!
For Death,—a swift old chap is he,
And swift the steed He rides.
He needs no chart o'er main or mart,
For no direction bides.
So, come, a final, cup with me,