Those who cannot drink their rations,
Go, begone from these ovations!
Here's no place for bashful boys;
Like the plague, they spoil our joys.—
Bashful eyes bring rustic cheer
When we're drunk,

And a blush betrays a drear
Want of spunk.

If there's here a fellow lurking
Who his proper share is shirking,

Let the door to him be shown,

From our crew we'll have him thrown ;

He's more desolate than death,

Mixed with us;

Let him go and end his breath!
Better thus !

When your heart is set on drinking,
Drink on without stay or thinking,
Till you cannot stand up straight,
Nor one word articulate -
But herewith I pledge to you
This fair health:

May the glass no mischief do,
Bring you wealth!

Wed not you the god and goddess,
For the god doth scorn the goddess;

He whose name is Liber, he
Glories in his liberty.

All her virtue in the cup

Runs to waste,

And wine wedded yieldeth up

Strength and taste.

Since she is the queen of ocean,
Goddess she may claim devotion;
But she is no mate to kiss
His superior holiness.

Bacchus never deigned to be

Watered, he!

Liber never bore to be

Christened, he!

XX.

Closely allied to drinking-songs are some comic ditties which may have been sung at wine-parties. Of these I have thought it worth while to present a few specimens, though their medieval bluntness of humour does not render them particularly entertaining to a modern reader.

The first I have chosen is The Lament of the Roast Swan. It must be remembered that this bird was esteemed a delicacy in the Middle Ages, and also that pepper was highly prized for its rarity. This gives a certain point to the allusion in the third stanza.

THE LAMENT OF THE ROAST SWAN.

No. 53.

Time was my wings were my delight,
Time was I made a lovely sight;
'Twas when I was a swan snow-white.

Woe's me! I vow,

Black am I now,

Burned up, back, beak, and brow!

The baster turns me on the spit,
The fire I've felt the force of it,

The carver carves me bit by bit.

I'd rather in the water float

Under the bare heavens like a boat,

Than have this pepper down my throat.

Whiter I was than wool or snow,
Fairer than any bird I know;

Now am I blacker than a crow.

Now in the gravy-dish I lie,

I cannot swim, I cannot fly,

Nothing but gnashing teeth I spy.

Woe's me! I vow, &c.

The next is The Last Will of the Dying Ass. There is not much to be said for the wit of this piece.

THE WILL OF THE DYING ASS.

No. 54.

While a boor, as poets tell,

Whacked his patient ass too well,

On the ground half dead it fell.
La sol fa,

On the ground half dead it fell,
La sol fa mi re ut.

Then with gesture sad and low,
Streaming eyes and words of woe,
He at length addressed it so :

"Had I known, my gentle ass, Thou from me so soon wouldst pass, I'd have swaddled thee, alas!

"Made for thee a tunic meet, Shirt and undershirt complete, Breeches, drawers of linen sweet.

"Rise awhile, for pity's sake, That ere life your limbs forsake You your legacies may make!"

Soon the ass stood up, and thus,
With a weak voice dolorous,
His last will proclaimed for us:

"To the magistrates my head,
Eyes to constables," he said,
"Ears to judges, when I'm dead;

"To old men my teeth shall fall, Lips to wanton wooers all,

And my tongue to wives that brawl.

"Let my feet the bailiffs win,
Nostrils the tobacco-men,
And fat canons take my skin.

"Voice to singing boys I give,

Throat to topers, may they live!