When I was a merry young fellow
I loved the red juice of the grape.
I would drink till I grew gay and mellow,
From Morpheus I could not escape.
I would give myself freely to slumber
Nor feared to go lonely to sleep,
I was lost for dark hours without number
My soul to oblivion would creep.
Then why do I now shake and tremble
As death comes to bid me lie still,
In a silence that sleep doth resemble
Who sought such a slumber at will?
Then death be your cup but the stronger,
For why should I fear me to sleep?
For I shall but slumber the longer
And drink but a little more deep.