Джон Пирпонт (John Pierpont)

Farewell the Bowl

Farewell to the cup, we have tarried too long,
Where the juice of the grape adds its witch'ry to song.
And the thoughts that flow'd freely are sombre and dull,
Our brains become heavy, farewell to the bowl,
Farewell, farewell, farewell, farewell to the bowl.

Oh, tarry no longer where joy flies away,
The heart and the soul lose their richest array,
Where eye mocketh eye, as unmeaning they roll,
The tongue whispers folly—farewell to the bowl.

Oh, think, if the maiden, who smiles in thine eyes,
Once saw thy proud mind in this shameful disguise;
Her heart would reject thee, how sadly her soul
Would pity and leave thee—oh, flee from the bowl.

Oh think, e'er the moment of thinking is past,
And chains of the mighty upon thee are cast!
Return—ere the iron shall enter thy soul,
And the dregs of thy life—a curse on the bowl.

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