A Bee goes mumbling homeward pleased,
He has not slaved away his hours;
He's drunken with a thousand healths
Of love and kind regard for flowers.
Pour out the wine,
His joy be mine.
Forgetful of affairs at home,
He has sipped oft and merrily;
Forgetful of his duty-Oh!
What can he say to his queen bee?
He says in wine,
'Boo to her shrine!'
The coward dog that wags his tail,
And rubs the nose with mangy curs,
And fearful says, 'Come play, not fight,'
Knows not the draught to drown his fears;
Knows not the wine,
The ruby shine.
Poor beggar, breathless in yon barn,
Who fears a mouse to move thy straw,
Must Conscience pester thee all night,
And fear oppress with thoughts of law?
O dearth of wine,
No sleep is thine.
Is Bacchus not the god of gods,
Who gives to Beauty's cheeks their shine?
O Love, thou art a wingless worm;
Wouldst thou be winged, fill thee with wine;
Fill thee with wine,
And wings be thine.
Then, Bacchus, rule thy merry race,
And laws like thine who would not keep?
And when fools weep to hear us laugh,
We'll laugh, ha! ha! to see them weep.
O god of wine,
My soul be thine.