Come, drink a stirrup cup with me,
  Before we close our rouse.
You 're all aglow with wine, I know:
  The master of the house,
  Unmindful of our revelry,
  Has drowned the carking devil care,
  And slumbers in his chair.

Come, drink a cup before we start;
  We 've far to ride to-night.
And Death may take the race we make,
  And check our gallant flight:
  But even he must play his part,
  And tho' the look he wears be grim,
  We 'll drink a toast to him!

For Death,—a swift old chap is he,
  And swift the steed He rides.
He needs no chart o'er main or mart,
  For no direction bides.
  So, come, a final, cup with me,
  And let the soldiers' chorus swell,—
  To hell with care, to hell!