'Tis true, my fading years decline...

By Thomas Moore

'Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet I can quaff the brimming wine
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the merry crew,
I'm called to wind the dance's clue,
Thou shalt behold this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask,
The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask!
Let those, who pant for Glory's charms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglorious, placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl.
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its honey'd wave!
For though my fading years decay,
And though my bloom has pass'd away,
Like old Silenus, sire divine,
With blushes borrowed from my wine,
I'll mingle mid the dancing train,
And live my follies o'er again.