The deserter

If sadly thinking and spirits sinking

Could more than drinking my cares compose;

A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,

And hope tomorrow might end my woes.

But since in wailing there's nought availing,

And Fate unfailing must strike the blow:

Then for that reason and for a season,

We will be merry before we go.

A wayworn ranger to joy a stranger,

Through every danger my course I've run;

Now hope all ending, and death befriending,

His last aid sending, my cares are done,

No more a rover, or hapless lover,

My griefs are over, and my glass runs low.

Then for that reason and for a season,

We will be merry before we go.