Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine we sip,
Sweeter far than woman’s lip;
If green-eyed grief assail the soul,
Why, drown him in the flowing bowl;
’Twere folly now to grieve or pine,
While seated near such rosy wine.
Rosy wine, &c.
Rosy wine, rosy wine, wine, they cry,
Doth beauty’s cheek by far outvie;
Thou to the soul art more sincere,