Oh, fill the sparkling crystal up
A beaker to the brim!
We sing no lays of fulsome praise
Of white-lipped seraphim:
No universal hymn of peace—
No puling, puking toast—
But clink a glass to those we love!
And those who love us most.
A love for love! a hate for hate!
Good old Mohammed’s creed—
That sears and brands the hearts and hands
Of every human breed:
We join in greetings to our foes—
No false-tongued canting host;
But drink a health to those we love!
And those who love us most!
To him whose hand would bear us down—
Whose fluent lie would mar—
We bear no hate inveterate,
No gall-tipped scimitar;
And little care, though glory crown,
Or hottest hell may roast—
But drain a glass to those we love
And those who love us most!
A white-haired woman o’er the sea—
A group within her gate,
Who bend to read the halting screed,
But half articulate—
Yet bearing on its blotted page,
From Austral coast to coast,
A word of love to those we love
And those who love us most.
To-night! oh, let no follies sway!
No gas-lit, luring eyes
Glint through the clear God’s atmosphere
That links eternities!
Wave back each wizened witch of care!
Wave back each peering ghost!
And breathe a heathen prayer for them—
“The hearts that love us most!”