Then, soldier! Come fill high the wine,
For we reck not of tomorrow;
Be ours today and we resign
All the rest to the fools of sorrow.
Gay be the hour  'til we beat to arms
Then comrade Death or Glory;
'Tis Victory in all her charms,
Or 'tis Fame in the world's bright story.

'Tis you, 'tis I that may meet the ball;
And me it better pleases
In battle, brave, with the brave to fall,
Than to die of dull diseases;
Driveller to be in my fireside chair
With saws and tales unheeded;
A tottering thing of aches and care
No longer lov'd nor needed.

But thou, O dark is thy flowing hair,
Andthine eye with fire is streaming,
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,
Sits health in triumph beaming.
Thou, brother soldier, fill the wine,
Fill high to love and beauty;
Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,
Thy country and thy duty.