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 O would the doctor come and drink with us awhile;

Soon would he shout for wine! and not for camomile!

I think our latin cooks —if they would but confess,

Would like our ruby wine—and leave their dirty mess.

'Tis wine—'tis wine that makes our understanding bright;

That drives our flowing blood—and bids our hearts feel light.

And then, O brother mine! on light and joyous toe,

How gaily to our homes, how merrily we go.

How passing fair the moon then rolls about our head,

And whirls her silver wheel, and cheers us as we tread.

And then, and then, I say, while thro' the world I roam,

'Tis wine, 'tis wine that makes the flowers of life to bloom.