With the song and the circling glass.
For it cannot thus long hold together
Here under the changeable moon;
To bloom for a time, then to wither,
Is the lot of all, later or soon.
Then here’s to the many good fellows
Who before us have tippled and laugh’d;
Be they under the turf or the billows,
To them let this goblet be quaff’d.
That if, after us, others as merry