Like the swift passing thought of a tune,
They are gathered and lost. For dust claimeth its own
In the quick-fading roses of June.
But we know of a flower that can nevermore die,
By our mother't was blest at its birth;
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'T is friendship, immortal, that opens on high
The petals once closed upon earth.
Each glass, fill it up! Let the wine for our toast
Overflow like a generous spring,
Like hearts filled with love, for such gifts are loved most,
By that mother whose praises we ring;
And though years passing by have unsteadied the hand
That was firm in our jubilant days,
Yet the strength never fails when this toast doth demand,
Fair mother, we drink to thy praise.