Occurred most unexpectedly Queen Gargamelle’s confinement!
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
III.
No sooner was GARGANTUA born, than from his infant throttle
Arose a most melodious cry to his nurse to bring the bottle!
Whereat Grandgousier much rejoiced — as it seemed, unto his thinking,
A certain sign of a humour fine for most immoderate drinking!
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
IV.
Gargantua shot up, like a tower some city looking over!
His full-moon visage in the clouds, leagues off, ye might discover!
His gracious person he arrayed — I do not mean to laugh at ye —
With a suit of clothes, and great trunk hose, of a thousand ells of taffety.
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
V.
Around his waist Gargantua braced a belt of silk bespangled,
And from his hat, as a platter flat, a long blue feather dangled;
And down his hip, like the mast of ship, a rapier huge descended,
With a dagger keen, stuck his sash between, all for ornament intended.
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
VI.
So learned did Gargantua grow, that he talked like one whose turn is
For logic, with a sophister, hight Tubal Holofernes.
In Latin, too, he lessons took from a tutor old and seedy,
Who taught the “Quid est,” and the “Pars,” — one Jobelin de Bridd!
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
VII.
A monstrous mare Gargantua rode — a black Numidian courser —
A beast so droll, of filly or foal, was never seen before sir!
Great elephants looked small as ants, by her side — her hoofs were cloven! —
Her tail was like the spire at Langes — her inane like goat-beards woven!
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
VIII.
Upon this mare Gargantua rode until he came to Paris,
Which, from Utopia’s capital, as we all know, rather far is —
The thundering bells of Notre Dame he took from out the steeple,
And he hung them round his great mare’s neck in the sight of all the people!
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
IX.
Now, what Gargantua did beside, I shall pass by without notices,
As well as the absurd harangue of that wiseacre Janotus;
But the legend tells that the thundering bells Bragmardo brought away, sir,
And that in the towers of Notre-Dame they are swinging to this day, sir! —
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo! —
X.
Now the great deeds of Gargantua, — how his father’s foes he followed —
How pilgrims six, with their staves and scrips, in a lettuce-leaf he swallowed —
How he got blind drunk with a worthy monk, Friar Johnny of the Funnels, —
And made huge cheer, till the wine and beer flew about his camp in runnels —
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
XI.
How he took to wife, to cheer his life, fat Badebec the moper;
And by her begat a lusty brat, Pantagruel the toper!
And did other things, as the story sings, too long to find a place here,
Are they not writ, with matchless wit, by Alcofribas Nasier?
Sing, Carimari, carimara! golynoly, golynolo!
MY OLD COMPLAINT: ITS CAUSE AND CURE.
I’M sadly afraid of my Old Complaint —
Dying of thirst. — Not a drop I’ve drunk
For more than an hour:’Tis too long to wait.
Wonderful how my spirits have sunk!
Provocation enough it is for a saint,
To suffer so much from my Old Complaint!
II.
What is it like, my Old Complaint?
I’ll tell you anon, since you wish to know.
It troubles me now, but it troubled me first,
When I was a youngster, years ago!
Bubble-and-squeak is the image quaint; —
Of what it is like, my Old Complaint!
III.
The Herring, in a very few minutes, we’re told,
Loses his life, ta’en out o’ the sea;
Rob me of Wine, and you will behold
Just the same thing happen to me.
Thirst makes the poor little Herring so faint; —
THIRST is the Cause of my Old Complaint!
IV.
The bibulous Salmon is ill content,
Unless he batheth his jowl in brine:
And so, my spirits are quickly spent,
Unless I dip my muzzle in Wine!
Myself in the jolly old Salmon I paint: —
WINE is the Cure of my Old Complaint.
Give me full bottles and no restraint,
And little you’ll hear of my Old Complaint!
V.
I never indulge in fanciful stuff,
Or idly prate, if my flagon be full;
Give me good Claret, and give me enough,
And then my spirits are never dull.
Give me good Claret and no constraint;
And I soon get rid of my Old Complaint!
Herring and Salmon my friends will acquaint
With the Cause and the Cure of my Old Complaint
JOLLY NOSE.
I.
JOLLY nose! the bright rubies that garnish thy tip
Are dug from the mines of canary;
And to keep up their lustre I moisten my lip
With hogsheads of claret and sherry.
II.
Jolly nose! he who secs thee across a broad glass
Beholds thee in all thy perfection;
And to the pale snout of a temperate ass
Entertains the profoundest objection.
III.
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!
IV.
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.
THE WINE DRINKER’S DECLARATION.
TO ALL AND SUNDRY WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.
I.
THE Toper who knows how to empty his can,
Is not half so afraid of a highwayman,
As he is of indifferent tipple:
With the last a stout fellow may fight for his purse;
Of the other the consequence certain is worse,
Down the throat if permitted to ripple.
II.
If acetose claret I happen to sip,
’Tis my wish, as the beaker I dash from my lip,
That my throat to a short span would dwindle;
But when I get hold of the vintage I prize, —
I care not, although it should shoot out in size,
Until like a crane’s neck it spindle.
III.
All wat’ry potations I let ’em alone,
And never will use such, until I am grown
A Hermit, and dwell in a cavern;
But then the good Anchorite brandy must get
(An anker, right often,) his whistle to wet,
Or else he will sigh for the tavern.
IV.
My maxim is ever to drink of the best,
And in that I resemble sound soakers at rest;
Our Fathers we always should follow:
Old customs, old manners, we never should quit,
Or the world will judge us, as some folks judge of it,
&n
bsp; And declare our professions are hollow.
WITH MY BACK TO THE FIRE.
I.
WITH my back to the fire, and my paunch to the table
Let me eat, — let me drink as long as I am able;
Let me eat, — let me drink whate’er I set my whims on,
Until my nose is blue, and my jolly visage crimson.
II.
The doctor preaches abstinence, and threatens me with dropsy,
But such advice, I needn’t say, from drinking never stops ye: —
The man who likes good liquor is of nature brisk and brave, boys,
So drink away! — drink while you may! — there’s no drinking in the grave, boys.
THE OLD WATER-DRINKER’S GRAVE.
I.
A STINGY curmudgeon lies under the stone,
Who ne’er had the heart to get mellow; —
A base water-drinker! — I’m glad he is gone,
We’re well rid of the frowsy old fellow.
II.
You see how the nettles environ his grave!
Weeds only could spring from his body.
While his heirs spend the money he fasted to save,
In wine and in women — the noddy!
CIDER OF DEVONSHIRE.
I.
CIDER good of Devonshire —
That just now is my desire.
Let the blockheads laugh, who will,
Quick, mine host, the flagon fill
With the admirable juice,
Which the apple-vats produce.
Better ’tis, I will maintain,
Than the stuff you call champagne.
Thirst I feel — and my desire
Is the drink of Devonshire.
II.
Cider fine! thou hast the merit,
With thy lightness and thy spirit,
Not to mystify the brain!
You may fill, and fill again.
Quaff as much as you require
Of the drink of Devonshire.
III.
’Tis the property of eider —
Ne’er to make a breach the wider.
With your friend you would not quarrel
Were you to consume a barrel.
Idle bickering and fooling
Dwell not in this liquor cooling.
Generous thoughts alone inspire
Draughts of dulcet Devonshire.
IV.
Cider sparkling, cider placid,
False it is to call it acid.
To the light you hold the cup,
How the atoms bright leap up!
How the liquid foams and bubbles,
Ready to dispel your troubles!
How its fragrancy invites!
How its flavour fine delights,
As the lip and throat it bites!
Pour it down! you’ll never tire
Of delicious Devonshire!
VENITE POTEMUS.
I.
VENITE, jovial sons of Hesper,
Who from matin unto vesper,
Roam abroad sub Domino; Benedictine, Carmelite, —
Quaff we many a flask to-night
Salutari nostro.
If the wine be, as I think,
Fit for reverend lips to drink
Jubilemus ei.
Ecce bonum vinum, venite potemus!
II.
Hodie, when cups are full,
Not a thought or care should dull
Corda vestra.
Eat your fill — the goblet quaff,
Sufficient is the wine thereof
Secundum diem: —
What care I — if huge in size
My paunch should wax? — it testifies
Opera mea.
Venite potemus!
III.
Quadraginta years and more
I’ve seen; and jolly souls some score
Proximus fui;
And life throughout, have ever thought,
That they, who tipple ale that’s naught,
Errant corde:
Yea, in my choler waxing hot,
I sware sour beer should enter not
In requiem meam.
Ecce bonum vinura, venite potemus!
THE SCHOLAR’S LITANY.
I.
FROM ail men, who, counsel scorning,
To the tavern hie at morning,
With Latin base their talk adorning,
Libera nos Domine.
II.
From all those, who night and day,
Cards and raiment cast away,
At cards and dice and other play,
Libera nos Domine.
ALE AND SACK.
I.
YOUR Gaul may tipple his thin, thin wine,
And prate of its hue, and its fragrance fine,
Shall never a drop pass throat of mine
Again — again!
His claret is meagre (but let that pass),
I can’t say much for his hippocrass,
And never more will I fill my glass
With cold champagne.
II.
But froth me a flagon of English ale,
Stout, and old, and as amber pale,
Which heart and head will alike assail —
Ale — ale be mine!
Or brew me a pottle of sturdy sack,
Sherris and spice, with a toast to its back,
And need shall be none to bid me attack
That drink divine
DRUID.
I.
THROUGH the world have I wandered wide,
With never a wife, or a friend by my side,
Save Druid — a comrade staunch and tried: —
Troll on away!
Druid, my dog, is a friend in need,
Druid, my dog, is a friend indeed,
Druid, my dog, is of English breed!
More need I say?
— Troll on away!
II.
Druid would perish my life to save,
For faithful Druid like fate I’d brave,
The dog and his master shall find one grave,
Troll on away!
Life! I heed not its loss a feather!
And when black Atropos snaps my tether,
She must cut twice — we’ll die together!
No more I’ll say.
— Troll on away
THE THIRTY REQUISITES.
THIRTY points of perfection each judge understands,
The standard of feminine beauty demand
Three white: — and, without further prelude, we know
That the skin, hands, and teeth, should be pearly as snow.
Three black: — and our standard departure forbids
From dark eyes, darksome tresses, and darkly-fringed lids.
Three red: — and the lover of comeliness seeks
For the hue of the rose in the lips, nails, and cheeks.
Three long: — and of this you, no doubt, are aware?
Long the body should be, long the hands, long the hair.
Three short: — and herein nicest beauty appears —
Eeet short as a fairy’s, short teeth, and short ears.
Three large: — and remember this rule as to size,
Embraces the shoulders, the forehead, the eyes.
Three narrow: — a maxim to every man’s taste —
Circumference small in mouth, ankle, and waist.
Three round: — and in this I see infinite charms —
Rounded fulness apparent in leg, hip, and arms.
Three fine: — and can aught the enchantment eclipse,
Of fine tapering fingers, fine hair, and fine lips?
Three small: — and my thirty essentials are told —
Small head, nose, and bosom, compact in its mould.
Now the dame who comprises attractions like these,
Will require not the cestus of Venus to please;
While he who has met with an union so rare,
Ha
s had better luck than has fall’n to my share.
LOVE’S HOMILY.
SAINT AUGUSTIN, one day, in a fair maiden’s presence,
Declared that pure love of the soul is the essence!
And that faith be it ever so firm and potential,
If love be not its base, must prove uninfluential.
SAINT BERNARD, likewise, has a homily left us —
(Sole remnant of those, of which fate hath bereft us!)
Where the good Saint confers, without any restriction,
On those who love most, his entire benediction.
SAINT AMBROSE, again, in his treatise, “De Virgine,”
To love one another is constantly urging ye;
And a chapter he adds, where he curses — not blesses —
The ill-fated wight who no mistress possesses!
Wise DE LYRA, hereon, makes this just observation,
That the way to the heart is the way to salvation;
And the further from love — we’re the nearer damnation!
Besides, as remarks this profound theologian,
(Who was perfectly versed in the doctrine Ambrogian) —
He, who loves not, is worse than the infamous set ye call
Profane, unbelieving, schismatic, heretical;
For, if he the fire of one region should smother,
He is sure to be scorched by the flames of the other!
And this is the reason, perhaps, why SAINT GREGORY
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 846
