The Deserter
If sadly thinking,
With spirit sinking,
Could more than drinking
My cares compose,
A cure for sorrow
From sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow
Would end my woes.
But as in wailing
There's nought availing,
And Death unfailing
Will strike the blow,
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go.
To joy a stranger,
A way-worn ranger,
In every danger
My course I've run;
Now hope all ending,
And Death befriending,
His last aid lending,
My cares are done:
No more a rover,
Or hapless lover,
My griefs are over,
My glass runs low;
Then for that reason,
And for a season,
Let us be merry
Before we go!
John Philpot Curran
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