From the German by Rossiter W. Raymond

THE WEARY night is o’er at last!
We ride so still, we ride so fast!
  We ride where Death is lying.
The morning wind doth coldly pass,
Landlord! we ’ll take another glass,
      Ere dying.

Thou, springing grass, that art so green,
Shall soon be rosy red, I ween,
  My blood the hue...