University of Virginia Library

WINE.

IN WHICH THE SUBJECT IS TREATED, AND NOT THE READER.

Wine! wine! wine!
Shall never be tipple of mine;
Let the poet with fire mock-divine,
Allured by its shimmer and shine,
Patter stuff on the juice from the Rhine,
On pure Verzenay,
Port, Sauterne, St. Peray,
Imperial Tokay,
Amber-hued Montillado,
Deep-tinted in shadow;

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492

Wine from either chateau,
Of Lafitte or Margaux,
Purple Port, from the docks,
The entire tribe of Hocks,
Or any or all of these juices,
Perverting his powers to bad uses;
But I have no liking to follow
The wine-bibbing son of Apollo,
Whose metre erratic
And wit, often Attic,
Is pressed with a very bad taste
To a service both vile and debased.

Song! beautiful Song!
Whose rhythmical syllables throng
And hurry impulsive along,
In defence of the right and defiance of wrong,
My pleasure, my pride,
My treasure, my guide,
My soother, my bride,
My darling, my friend,
I am yours to the end;
And whatever the cares that oppress me,
Or whatever the woes that possess me,
They fly when you come to caress me.
Song, beautiful Song!
Shall I take you
And make you
A stagging, tipsy
And vacant-eye gipsy?
Shall I deaden your feeling,
And set you a-reeling,
And see you fall prone
In the kennel alone,

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493

And lie there with mutter and hiccough,
For scorning policemen to pick up—
Shall I do you this terrible wrong,
My pure and my beautiful Song?

Wine! infamous wine!
The chariot which carries you over the line,
Dividing man's nature from that of the swine;
Abridger of life,
And creator of strife,
In whose deeps there repose
The carbuncled nose,
Red eyes, muddled brains,
And a cargo of pains;
Raining rags on your back,
Till with scorn people note you,
And threatening attack
Of grim mania a-potu;
Author of wailing and pleading,
Maker of sorrow exceeding,
Foe to our daughters and wives,
Cause of our sons' shortened lives,
Bring to scorn and contumely,
Setting the mind brooding gloomily;
To-day bringing sorrow
And trouble and care,
To be followed to-morrow
By want and despair.
Dire are the evils that grow with the vine;
Black are the vices that flow with the wine,
That swim in the casks,
And sport in the flasks,
And leap from the bottles
Down men's thirsty throttles,

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494

Turning manners and mind topsy-turvey,
Till their victims grow reckless and scurvy,
Careless of home and its quiet,
Given to tippling and riot,
Out-of-door swaggering
Home-to-bed staggering,
And, at last, when the revel is o'er,
The grave of a drunkard—thus much and no more.