Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Bartholomew Dowling b. 182—The Revel
W
And the walls around are bare;
As they shout back our peals of laughter
It seems that the dead are there.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!
We drink in our comrades’ eyes:
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not here is the vintage sweet;
’T is cold, as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
And soon shall our pulses rise:
A cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
And many a cheek that ’s sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They ’ll burn with the wine we’ve drunk.
Then stand to your glasses, steady!
’T is here the revival lies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
We thought we were wiser then;
Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses, steady!
The thoughtless is here the wise:
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We ’ll fall, ’midst the wine-cup’s sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
Come stand to your glasses, steady!
’T is this that the respite buys:
A cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
’T is the hurricane’s sultry breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of Death.
But stand to your glasses, steady!
For a moment the vapor flies:
Quaff a cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul can sting no more?
No, stand to your glasses, steady!
The world is a world of lies:
A cup to the dead already—
And hurrah for the next that dies!
Betray’d by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind—
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!
’T is all we have left to prize:
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!