If sadly thinking and spirits sinking
Could more than drinking my cares compose;
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,
And hope tomorrow might end my  woes.
But since in wailing there's nought availing,
And Fate unfailing must strike the blow:
Then for that reason and for a season,
We will be merry before we go.

A wayworn ranger to joy a stranger,
Through every danger my course I've run;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending,
His last aid sending, my cares are done,
No more a rover, or hapless lover,
My griefs are over, and my glass runs low.
Then for that reason and for a season,
We will be merry before we go.