The habit of drinking, in sorrow, felt so right,
In sorrow, felt so right,
In sorrow, felt so right,
In sorrow, felt so right.
Grief devours the heart, and wine consumes the pain,
Wine consumes the pain.
Before the bloom, before the laughter's light,
Oh heart, if you should wither,
Oh heart, if you should wither, a bud they call it,
A bud they call it.
Such warmth, no other tears could ever hold,
What drop of heart's own blood,
What drop of heart's own blood, flows down the eyes,
Flows down the eyes.
She laughs all hours, while we writhe in night,
That life is theirs, and ours,
That life is theirs, and ours,
That life is ours.
The habit of drinking, in sorrow, felt so right,
In sorrow, felt so right.
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