Song Xxvi. To--Morrow Poem by Robert Anderson

To--morrow's a cheat, let's be merry to--day,
And to Time fill a goblet--'twill force him to stay.
Who but cowards would e'er at his summons repine;
Who but cowards would steal from a liquor divine;
For 'tis wine that can blunt the keen thorn of pale Sorrow,
As it moistens the flow'r that may fade ere to--morrow.

Since rosy Contentment dwells not with the great,
Leave wealth and dull thinking to slaves of the state;
But let Mirth and Good--humour our banquet still share,
And wine be our armour against sullen Care;
For 'tis wine, gen'rous wine, blunts the thorn of pale Sorrow,
As it moistens the flow'r that may fade ere to--morrow.

To--morrow's a cheat--the blest moments let's prize,
The sting of Reflection Age bids us despise.
Come, Friendship, then sweeten the care--drowning bowl,
That's sacred to Love, the delight of the soul;
For 'tis wine that can blunt the keen thorn of pale Sorrow,
As it moistens the flow'r that may fade ere to--morrow.