THE SAILOR's MEDLEY, SONG

By the gaily-circling glass, We can see how minutes pass; By the hollow cask are told How the waning night grows old. Soon, too soon, the busy day Drives us from our sport away. What have we with day to do? Sons of care, 'twas made for you!

By the silence of the owl, By the chirping on the thorn, By the butts that empty roll, We foretell th' approach of morn. Fill then, the vacant glass. Let no precious moment slip:— Flout the moralizing ass; Joys find entrance at the lip.