Lily on liquid roses floating—
So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne—
Fain would I join such pleasant boating,
And prove that ruby main,
And float away on wine!
Those seas are dangerous, greybeards swear—
Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim;
And true it is—they drown old Care,
But what care we for him,
So we but float on wine!

And true it is—they cross in pain,
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry;
But only make our Styx—champagne,
And we shall cross right merry,
Floating away on wine!
Old Charon's self shall make him mellow,
Then gaily row his boat from shore;
While we, and every jovial fellow,
Hear—unconcerned—the oar,
That dips itself in wine!