Quaff The Glass, The Wine Is Red.

A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

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