WHERE are you going so fast, young man, 

Where are you going so fast, 

With the cup in your hand, and a flush on your brow? 

Though pleasure and mirth may accompany you now, 

It tells of sorrow to come by-and-by; 

It tells of a pang that is sealed with a sigh; 

It tells of a shame at last, young man,— 

A withering shame that will last. 

Where are you going so fast, young man? 

Where are you going so fast? 

In the flush of that wine there is only a bait— 

A curse lies beneath that you'll find when too late; 

A serpent sleeps down in the depths of that cup; 

A monster is there that will swallow you up; 

A sorrow you'll find at last, young man,— 

In wine there is sorrow at last. 

There's a reckoning day to come, young man; 

A reckoning day to come, 

A life yet to live, and a death yet to die, 

A sad, parting tear and a parting sigh; 

A journey to take, and a famishing heart, 

A sharp pang to feel from Death's chilling dart; 

A curse if you drink that rum, young man,— 

The bitterest curse in that rum.