For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use,
And the choicest of wine is my colour;

And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues

The fuller I fill it-the fuller!

Jolly nose! there are fools who say drink hurts the sight;

Such dullards know nothing about it.

'Tis better, with wine, to extinguish the light, Than live always in darkness without it!

WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH.

172

THE MAHOGANY TREE

CHRISTMAS is here:
Winds whistle shrill,

Icy and chill,

Little care we:
Little we fear

Weather without,

Sheltered about

The Mahogany Tree.

Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom;
Night-birds are we:

Here we carouse,

Singing like them,

Perched round the stem

Of the jolly old tree.

Here let us sport, Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but shortWhen we are gone, Let them sing on Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,

Happy as this;

Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,

Gentle and just,

Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate:
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be!

Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,

Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea:

Mantle it up;
Empty it yet;
Let us forget,

Round the old tree.

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.

Come with the dawn,

Blue-devil sprite,

Leave us to-night,

Round the old tree.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

(1811-1863).

173

FRIAR'S SONG

SOME love the matin-chimes, which tell
The hour of prayer to sinner:
But better far's the mid-day bell,

Which speaks the hour of dinner;

For when I see a smoking fish,
Or capon drowned in gravy,
Or noble haunch on silver dish,
Full glad I sing my Ave.

Р

My pulpit is an alehouse bench,
Whereon I sit so jolly;

A smiling rosy country wench
My saint and patron holy.
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek,
I press her ringlets wavy,
And in her willing ear I speak
A most religious Ave.

And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind,
And holy saints forgiving;

For sure he leads a right good life
Who thus admires good living.
Above, they say, our flesh is air,
Our blood celestial ichor:

Oh, grant! 'mid all the changes there,
They may not change our liquor!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

174

COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL

THE Pope he is a happy man,

His palace is the Vatican,

And there he sits and drains his can:

The Pope he is a happy man.

I often say when I'm at home,

I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.

And then there's Sultan Saladin,
That Turkish Soldan full of sin;
He has a hundred wives at least,
By which his pleasure is increased:
I've often wished, I hope no sin,
That I were Sultan Saladin.

But no, the Pope no wife may choose,
And so I would not wear his shoes;
No wine may drink the proud Paynim,
And so I'd rather not be him:

My wife, my wine, I love, I hope,
And would be neither Turk nor Pope.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

175

I'M VERY FOND OF WATER

A NEW TEMPERANCE SONG

(Adapted from the Platt Deutsch)
Αριστον μὲν ὕδωρ

I'm very fond of water,

I drink it noon and night: Not Rechab's son or daughter Had therein more delight.

I breakfast on it daily;

And nectar it doth seem, When once I've mixed it gaily

With sugar and with cream.