Hence burgundy, claret, and port
Away with old hock and madeira!
Too earthly ye are for my sport;
There's a beverage brighter and clearer!
Instead of a pitiful rummer
My wine overbrims a whole summer;
My bowl is the sky
And I drink at my eye
Till I feel in the brain
A Delphian pain --
Then follow, my Caius, then follow!
On the green of the hill
We will drink our fill
Of golden sunshine
Till our brains intertwine
With the glory and grace of Apollo!