Waes-hael! for Lord and Dame!
O! merry be their Dole;
Drink-hael! in Jesu's name,
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Waes-hael! for Lord and Dame!
O! merry be their Dole;
Drink-hael! in Jesu's name,
And fill the tawny bowl.

The bubble winked at me, and said,
"You'll miss me brother, when you're dead."

The bubble winked at me, and said,
"You'll miss me brother, when you're dead."

Here's to the red of it,
There's not a thread of it,
No, not a shred of read more

Here's to the red of it,
There's not a thread of it,
No, not a shred of it,
In all the spread of it,
From foot to head,
Not heroes bled for it,
Faced steel and lead for it,
Precious blood shed for it,
Bathing in red.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
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I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.

I come from good old Boston,
The home of the bean and the cod,
Where Cabots speak read more

I come from good old Boston,
The home of the bean and the cod,
Where Cabots speak only to Lowells,
And the Lowells speak only to God.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high;
"I drink to one," read more

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high;
"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead."
. . . .
St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood
Thus lightly to another;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give the word the reverence due,
And gently said, "My mother!"

I am from Massachusetts,
The land of the sacred cod,
There the Adamses snub the Abootts
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I am from Massachusetts,
The land of the sacred cod,
There the Adamses snub the Abootts
And the Cabots walk with God.

Here's to Great Britain, the sun that gives light to all nations
of the world.

Here's to Great Britain, the sun that gives light to all nations
of the world.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of read more

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.