 | Poems |  |
51
BRINDISI.
The wild wind whistles, sleet and rain,
Lashed downwards in a hurricane,
Beat loud the clattering, pattered pane,
But fair's the weather
To us, well housed, here met to drain
The bowl together!
Lashed downwards in a hurricane,
Beat loud the clattering, pattered pane,
But fair's the weather
To us, well housed, here met to drain
The bowl together!
The blustering storm shall not expel
Rare Mirth that means with us to dwell:
We'll hear without the fierce pell-mell,
And not sit surly:
But make mad noise within, to swell
The hurlyburly!
Rare Mirth that means with us to dwell:
We'll hear without the fierce pell-mell,
And not sit surly:
But make mad noise within, to swell
The hurlyburly!
Come, John, my lackadaisic cousin,
Whom now some silly slut doth cozen,
Whimper not woe-begone because in
Love, nor fiercely sigh;
But drink—and hope to love a dozen
Or e'er you die!
Whom now some silly slut doth cozen,
Whimper not woe-begone because in
Love, nor fiercely sigh;
But drink—and hope to love a dozen
Or e'er you die!
52
Grave Sydney, whom the cares of State
Engage, in vain thou look'st sedate!
To-night thy wonted-wise debate
Shall turn to twaddle:
To-night thy brains belong to Fate,
Which shall them addle!
Engage, in vain thou look'st sedate!
To-night thy wonted-wise debate
Shall turn to twaddle:
To-night thy brains belong to Fate,
Which shall them addle!
Who skulks behind the open door,
As loth to show?—'tis Willy More!
Come forth, best man that ever wore
An ugly feature!
Of God's best gifts thou lack'st not store,
Thou honest creature!
As loth to show?—'tis Willy More!
Come forth, best man that ever wore
An ugly feature!
Of God's best gifts thou lack'st not store,
Thou honest creature!
Come forth, the bowl is mantling high,
We'll drink the death of every lie,
The death of Cant until it die,
Drowned deep in wine;
We'll send the corpse to Curate Sly,
That sleek divine!
We'll drink the death of every lie,
The death of Cant until it die,
Drowned deep in wine;
We'll send the corpse to Curate Sly,
That sleek divine!
Let solemn knaves in hood and bands,
Let love-lorn youths with folded hands,
Let statesmen, monarchs—all the Grands
Sip tea with Sorrow!
We four with her have shaken hands
Until to-morrow!
Let love-lorn youths with folded hands,
Let statesmen, monarchs—all the Grands
Sip tea with Sorrow!
We four with her have shaken hands
Until to-morrow!
53
My breath grows scant, my pulse beats low,
A sweet, sweet sound is gurgling slow;—
Pour, pour, man, pour the ruby flow
With hand unchary!
Our first draught to the lasses, O!
I drink to Sairey!
A sweet, sweet sound is gurgling slow;—
Pour, pour, man, pour the ruby flow
With hand unchary!
Our first draught to the lasses, O!
I drink to Sairey!
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