If sadly thinking,
And spirits sinking,
Could more than drinking
Our griefs compose--
A cure for sorrow
From care I'd borrow;
And hope tomorrow
Might end my woes.

But since in wailing
There's naught availing,
For Death, unfailing,
Will strike the blow;
Then, for that reason,
And for the season,
Let us be merry
Before we go!

A wayworn ranger,
To joy a stranger,
Through every danger
My course I've run.
Now, death befriending,
His last aid lending,
My griefs are ending,
My woes are done.

No more a rover,
Or hapless lover,
Those cares are over--
"My cup runs low";
Then, for that reason,
And for the season,
Let us be merry