Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
And the rose of youth is glowing,
While the toils of life are fled
And the snows of age are going;
Quaff it with a hearty will,
Quaff it deep and quaff forever;
Wine will every sorrow kill,
And destroy the pleasures never.
When the heart beats sad and low,
Drink its gladness like a river;
When the soul is weak with woe,
Quaff and be a cheerful liver;
Never, never, life, despair,
While a cup of hope is nigh thee;
Bend not under loads of care
While the fount of joy is by thee!
If the fickle friendships end
And thy fortune be a sad one,
Claim, O, claim, as truest friend,
Ruby wine, the sweet and glad one!
If thy love hath proven cold,
Leave her, leave her, for the new one;
Wine is never false for gold;
Friend to friend, a tried and true one!
Let the cynics curse and rave;
This must be a life of pleasure;
Fill a bumper! He's the knave
Who would scorn joy's fullest measure;
Quaff the glass, the wine is red;
Hour by hour the days are going;
Wine is yet the fountain head
From which pleasure's tide is flowing