A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,
When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy,--
'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,--poor child,
you'll never bear
This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;
And if--God bless me!--you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill.
So John did drink,--and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;
I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.
'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?
Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,--its pressed yet fragrant flowers,--
The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,--my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;
The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;
And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin
That dooms one to those dreadful words,--"My dear, where HAVE you been?"