Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We’ll fall, ’midst the wine-cup’s sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
So stand to your glasses steady,
’Tis in this that our respite lies.
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Time was when we frowned at others;
We thought we were wiser then;