John Philpot Curran (1750–1817)

IF sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,

Could more than drinking my cares compose,

A cure for sorrow from sighs I’d borrow,

And hope to-morrow would end my woes.

But as in wailing there’s nought availing,

And Death unfailing will strike the blow,

Then for that reason, and for a season,

Let us be merry before we go.

To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,

In every danger my course I’ve run;

Now hope all ending, and death befriending

His last aid lending, my cares are done.

No more a rover, or hapless lover,

My griefs are over—my glass runs low;

Then for that reason, and for a season,

Let us be merry before we go.