Song XVI. the Bowl

When sorrow baneful ills impart, And woes distract the mind, Ne'er let vain grief unman the heart, Disperse it in the wind; Nor yield like cowards to despair, Dispel it from the soul, For there's a balm, a cure for care, Concentred in the bowl.

Columbia's prop, the hardy tar, Rough, generous, and free; If duty calls, attends the war, And braves the foaming sea: E'en when unequal foes appear, No fears torment his soul, He finds a balm can keep it clear. Concentred in the bowl.