COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
    Found a proper excuse or fit season,
For toasts to be honour'd, or pledges to pass,
    Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
    And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,
Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast,
    Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen!
                                        Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom
    The past year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
    Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey—
Days usher'd by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
    Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin—
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
    That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!
                                        Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
    And been bow'd to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd,
    Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,—
Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,
    The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
    Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!
                                        Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!