Who have ne’er wet their clay,
That merry old wine gives no bliss,
But the flask’s sparkling high,
Gives the dotards the lie,
Crying, kiss me, my roaring lads, kiss!
Hip! hip! hip! jolly boys!
He who quarrels with those joys,
Which the longer they’re sipped of grow sweeter,
May he live to be wise,
And then when he sighs