Come, soul-inspiring Mirth,
I’ll twine a wreath for thee,
With flowers of spring-time birth,
Born amid Nature’s glee:
Born when the cuckoo sung
Its notes of joy to God,
And the sunny day-beam flung
Smiles o’er the flowery sod.
 
But, lord of jest and jeer,
Come in thy fairest trim,
Let smiling Wit be near,
With eye that’s never dim:
Come with the flowing bowl
And the rosy wine to me,
And beam upon my soul,
Ere I twine a wreath for thee.

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