Читать книгу A Book of Irish Verse - Various - Страница 7

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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 wayworn 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!

John Philpot Curran