Raise your glasses high,
tonight we won’t cry,
the wine is pouring,
and my love is at home, mourning.
Next round is on me,
we’ll get more drunk than sailors at the sea,
just drink from your wooden tankard,
until everything around is blurred.
Let me hear you cheer,
spaced-out from ***, wine and beer.
This is our last night,
next day we march to fight.
Now, let’s dine,
cause tomorrow by this time,
we’ll be dead,
and our clothes will be red,
like this delicious crimson wine.