LET the ghosts in black Erebus roar, Whilst the moon does dance over the hills And billows be tumbling to shore, Whilst to Bacchus a brimmer each fills. Come, bowl away, Brook no delay, But fairly play: He drinks a couple that spills. 'Twill drive away fancies and fears; And make us grow lusty and strong, 'Tis nectar, 'tis nectar that cheers, And makes life to spin out so long. Come, bowl away, Brook no delay, But fairly play: He that drinks not, to Nature does wrong. If they're off, let's fill 'em again; And merrily let them go round; He's a Slave that presumes to complain, For no pleasure like drinking is found. |