I pity him who has not swung
The Thyrsus in the air,
And followed Bacchus, blithe and young,
'With vine-leaves in his hair;
And heard the Maenads sing,
And the mad cymbals ring.

I pity those who have to walk
In sober ways and sad,
And keep a guard upon their talk
Lest men should think them mad.
Or careless speech should show
The felon thought below.

When in my goblet, blithe and gay,
The beaded bubbles wink,
For all poor souls like this I pray
That they may learn to drink,
And, like a rose in rain,
Open shut heart and brain.

Who does not drink he does not know,
And he will never find,
What merry fellows live below
The surface of his mind:
These other men to me
Are right good company.

If beings of Mythology
Could live at my commands
Briareus I'd choose to be,
Who had a hundred hands:
And every hand of mine
Would hold a pint of wine

And of those beakers ninety-nine
With white wine and with red
Should brim for dear old friends of mine,
The living and the dead.
By Pluto there would be
A noble revelry!

Then let us unto Bacchus sing
Evoe! up and down-
For Bacchus is the wisest king
Who ever wore a crown:
His vine leaves hide from view
More wit than Plato knew.