A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Nay, there must be some pause
In he clutch of the laws;
Joyous Frenchmen, let's empty our cellars renowned!
Prosy censors in vain
From all wine may abstain;
They shall snuff but the fumes, and their brains shall spin round
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Authors grave, spouters chill,
Preachers harping on ill,
Ye whose hearers to slumber their senses resign,
Men of pamphlets; and men
Who on verse try the pen,
Come, exchange me your ink-horns for goblets of wine!
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Mars, in taking his flight
From the din of the fight,
In our high-flavored wines would his thunderbolts steep:
From our arsenals roll,
O ye keepers, the whole
Of the barrels — for us — in which powder you keep
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

We who hover where'er
Pretty rosebuds appear,
We'll muddle the doves that wing Venus's flight:
Birds to Cypris so dear,
Come, our noise never fear,
But, to drain, the last drops on our glasses alight!
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Gold is ten times too heavy;
A rollicking bevy
Of topers, who lush for their mistresses' sake,
On the whole will aver
That this glass they prefer
To the metal that fools into diadems make
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Charming children of mothers
Whose common sense smothers
The nonsense of sentiments grand as you please,
Sons of ours, brisk and plump,
Into being shall jump,
'Mid the wine pots, their faces besmeared with the lees
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Then to honors a truce;
Let them cease to seduce:
We're at length truly happy — what, ho, for our signs!
Jolly dogs, every king
To his bottle shall cling,
And the bay-tree shall serve but to prop up our vines
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
We'll have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!

Reason, Reason, good by!
On this spot where we lie,
Bowing down before Bacchus whose praise is our theme,
Clad in purple or tatters,
All friends for such matters,
We'll drop off to sleep, and of vintages dream!
A charm for every mother's son
Hath wine — then let it freely run,
By the tun!
In floods of wine be Paris sunk;
Well have your cross and crabbed old hunk
Drunk!