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 | The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar : |  |
THE STIRRUP CUP
Come, drink a stirrup cup with me,
Before we close our rouse.
You 're all aglow with wine, I know:
The master of the house,
Unmindful of our revelry,
Has drowned the carking devil care,
And slumbers in his chair.
Before we close our rouse.
You 're all aglow with wine, I know:
The master of the house,
Unmindful of our revelry,
Has drowned the carking devil care,
And slumbers in his chair.
Come, drink a cup before we start;
We 've far to ride to-night.
And Death may take the race we make,
And check our gallant flight:
But even he must play his part,
And tho' the look he wears be grim,
We 'll drink a toast to him!
We 've far to ride to-night.
And Death may take the race we make,
And check our gallant flight:
But even he must play his part,
And tho' the look he wears be grim,
We 'll drink a toast to him!
For Death,—a swift old chap is he,
And swift the steed He rides.
He needs no chart o'er main or mart,
For no direction bides.
So, come, a final cup with me,
And let the soldiers' chorus swell,—
To hell with care, to hell!
And swift the steed He rides.
He needs no chart o'er main or mart,
For no direction bides.
So, come, a final cup with me,
And let the soldiers' chorus swell,—
To hell with care, to hell!
| The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar : | |