If sadly thinking, with spirits 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 wayworn 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.
Let Us Be Merry Before We Go
John Philpot Curran
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Poem topics: joy, sorrow, stranger, rover, ranger, glass, danger, death, hope, Season, reason, merry, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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