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2.—'TIS THE LAST GLASS OF CLARET.

'Tis the last glass of Claret,
Left sparkling alone,
All its rosy companions
Are clean'd out and gone.
No wine of her kindred,
No Red Port is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
And gladden my eye.

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I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
This desert to crown:
As the bowls are all empty,
Thou too shalt float down.
Thus kindly I drink up
Each drop of pure red,
And fling the bright goblet
Clean over my head.
So soon may dame Fortune
Fling me o'er her head,
When I quit brimming glasses,
And bundle to bed.
When Champaigne is exhausted,
And Burgundy's gone,
Who would leave even Claret,
To perish alone.