I get songs caught in my head very, very easily. Right now it's
I'll eat when I am hungry and I'll drink when I am dry,
Get drunk whenever I'm ready, get sober by and by,
And if this river don't drown me, it's down I'll mean to roam,
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.
It could be partially that it's a lovely, cooling evening with textured clouds coloring the sky, and I'm drinking a cold beer and getting a little homesick for white canvas and low-lying embers in fire pits. I'm thinking about the quiet repose after a long day and a satisfying dinner, before the boisterous racket of nightime carousing begins. How the eighteenth-century shoes get changed for sandals, but the breeches and navy jackets stay on, and how the women take off their caps and shake out their hair. Guitar cases start emerging from tents littered with modern sleeping bags and Revolutionary War paraphenalia. Music begins, all else ceases. Two hundred years ago and last weekend rolled into an anachronistic memory shared by a select few living history nuts.
Here’s a health to the company and one to my lass
Let us drink and be merry all out of one glass
Let us drink and be merry all grief to refrain
For we may and might never all meet here again