A Round

Now that the Spring hath filled our veins
With kind and active fire,
And made green liveries for the plains,
And every grove a choir;

Sing we a song of merry glee,
And Bacchus fill the bowl.
Then here's to thee! And thou to me
And every thirsty soul.

Nor care nor sorrow e'er paid debt,
Nor never shall do mine;
I have no cradle going yet,
Not I, by this good wine.

No wife at home to send for me,
No hogs are in my ground,
No suit at law to pay a fee;
Then round, old jockey, round!

Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,
But see that no man 'scape
To drink of the sherry
That makes us so merry,
And plump as the lusty grape.