'A bumper, Calidas, and a song,' said Kisloch. ''Tis rare
stuff,' said the Guebre; 'come, Cally, it should inspire you.'
'Here goes, then; mind the chorus.'
Drink, drink, deeply drink,
Never feel, and never think;
What's love? what's fame? a sigh, a smile.
Friendship? but a hollow wile.
If you've any thought or woe,
Drown them in the goblet's flow.
Yes! dash them in this brimming cup;
Dash them in, and drink them up.
Drink, drink, deeply drink,
Never feel, and never think.
'Hark, the trumpets! The King and Queen! 'The procession is coming.
Let's away.'
'Again! they must be near. Hurry, hurry, for good places.'
'Break all the cups and dishes. Come along!'
The multitude from all quarters hurried to the great circus, amid the
clash of ten thousand cymbals and the blast of innumerable trumpets.
In the distance, issuing from the gates of Bagdad, might be discerned a
brilliant crowd, the advance company of the bridal procession.
There came five hundred maidens crowned with flowers, and beauteous as
the buds that girt their hair. Their flowing robes were whiter than the
swan, and each within her hand a palm-branch held. Followed these a
band of bright musicians, clothed in golden robes, and sounding silver
trumpets.
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