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147

IV.—O saepe mecum tempus in ultimum.

Lib. II., Ode VII.

Furlough, 1861.

Ah Frank, with whom often reclining
Under canvas at close of the day,
In a very loose uniform dining,
I have drank the short twilight away.
With whom through those perilous shindies
I rode in the days of old Clyde—
What has brought you at last from the Indies,
To your country and quiet fire-side?
'Twas with you that I bolted from Delhi,
When our soldiers joined arms with the foe,
And, basely shot down in the melée,
The best of our mess were laid low:
148

But, saved by kind Fate from the shooting, I
Was sent from the battle-field far,
While you the high flood tide of mutiny
Swept off down the torrent of war.
Then a banquet in honour preparing,
'Tis meet that we gratefully dine;
Come, rest your worn limbs this armchair in,
And try just a glass of this wine.
We'll drown all our sorrows in claret,
In balmy care-soothing Lafitte,
(I have broached it for you, so don't spare it,)
And a thimble of eau-de-vie neat.
Let propriety go to the devil,
Be Anonyma queen of the feast—
I can't see the harm of a revel,
With a friend who is home from the East.
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