WILLIAM FRANCIS THOMPSON.
1808—1842.
Indian Revelry.
We meet 'neath the sounding rafter.
And the walls around are bare,
As they shout to our peals of laughter,
It seems that the dead are there;
So stand to your glasses! steady!
We drink in our comrades' eyes;
A cup to the dead already—
Hurrah! for the next that dies.
Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
'Tis 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;
Here's a cup to the dead already—
Hurrah! for the next that dies.
There's many a hand that's shaking,
And many a cheek that's sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking.
They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.
So stand to your glasses! steady!
'Tis here the revival lies;
A cup to the dead already!
And hurrah! for the next that dies.
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