Good Wine

Now that the Spring hath filled our veins
With kind and active fire
And made green liveries for the plains
And every grove a choir;

Sing we a song of merry glee
And Bacchus fill the bowl
Then here's to thee! And thou to me
And every thirsty soul

Nor care nor sorrow e'er paid debt
Nor never shall do mine;
I have no cradle going yet
Not I, by this good wine

No wife at home to send for me
No hogs are in my ground
No suit at law to pay a fee;
Then round, old jockey, round!

Shear sheep that have them, cry we still
But see that no man 'scape
To drink of the sherry
That makes us so merry
And plump as the lusty grape