The sea swings mad in the raging grip
Of the seething, stinging gale,
It moans its hate with a yearning wrath
That bids fair cheeks go pale,—
But fill the bowl to its brimming tip,—
Drink! for tonight we sail.
Ay, fill the bowl and drain the bowl,
Sing hey for the brimming ale,
And fill and drain—again—again—
Till the smoking wassails fail,
Then hurl the bowl at the trembling host,
Drink! for tonight we sail.
The sleet beats down like a rain of blows
On a coat of iron mail.
And faint and thin through the ringing din
Is heard the lookout’s hail,—
But it’s up and up with the foaming cup,
Drink! for tonight we sail.
And it’s hurl the cup at the landlord’s head
And it’s little his threats avail
For the unpaid score,—with joyous roar
It’s jeer at the beckoning gaol,
And it’s yell farewell through the night of hell,—
Drink, for tonight we sail!