These add a bouquet to my wine!
These add a sparkle to my pine!

If these I tine,

Can books, or fire, or wine be good?

Robert Hinckley Messinger [1811-1874]

THE SPIRIT OF WINE

The Spirit of Wine

Sang in my glass, and I listened
With love to his odorous music,
His flushed and magnificent song.

-"I am health, I am heart, I am life!

For I give for the asking

The fire of my father, the Sun,

And the strength of my mother, the Earth.

Inspiration in essence,

I am wisdom and wit to the wise,

His visible muse to the poet,

The soul of desire to the lover,

The genius of laughter to all.

"Come, lean on me, ye that are weary! Rise, ye faint-hearted and doubting! Haste, ye that lag by the way!

I am Pride, the consoler;

Valor and Hope are my henchmen;
I am the Angel of Rest.

"I am life, I am wealth, I am fame:
For I captain an army

Of shining and generous dreams;
And mine, too, all mine, are the keys
Of that secret spiritual shrine,
Where, his work-a-day soul put by,
Shut in with his saint of saints-
With his radiant and conquering self-
Man worships, and talks, and is glad.

"Come, sit with me, ye that are lonely,
Ye that are paid with disdain,

Ye that are chained, and would soar!
I am beauty and love;

I am friendship, the comforter;

I am that which forgives and forgets."

The Spirit of Wine

Sang in my heart, and I triumphed
In the savor and scent of his music,
His magnetic and mastering song.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

"DAY AND NIGHT MY THOUGHTS INCLINE"

DAY and night my thoughts incline
To the blandishments of wine:
Jars were made to drain, I think,
Wine, I know, was made to drink.

When I die, (the day be far!)
Should the potters make a jar
Out of this poor clay of mine,

Let the jar be filled with wine!

Richard Henry Stoddard [1825-1903]

FALSTAFF'S SONG

WHERE'S he that died o' Wednesday?
What place on earth hath he?
A tailor's yard beneath, I wot,
Where worms approaching be;

For the wight that died o' Wednesday,

Just laid the light below,

Is dead as the varlet turned to clay

A score of years ago.

Where's he that died o' Sabba' day?
Good Lord, I'd not be he!

The best of days is foul enough

From this world's fare to flee;

And the saint that died o' Sabba' day,
With his grave turf yet to grow,
Is dead as the sinner brought to pray
A hundred years ago.

Where's he that died o' yesterday?
What better chance hath he
To clink the can and toss the pot
When this night's junkets be?
For the lad that died o' yesterday
Is just as dead-ho! ho!-

As the whoreson knave men laid away

A thousand years ago.

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

THE MALTWORM'S MADRIGAL

I DRINK of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;

At noon I dream on the settle; at night I cannot sleep; For my love, my love it groweth; I waste me all the day; And when I see sweet Alison, I know not what to say.

The sparrow when he spieth his Dear upon the tree,
He beateth-to his little wing; he chirketh lustily;
But when I see sweet Alison, the words begin to fail;
I wot that I shall die of Love-an I die not of Ale.

Her lips are like the muscadel; her brows are black as ink; Her eyes are bright as beryl stones that in the tankard wink; But when she sees me coming, she shrilleth out-"Te-Hee! Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin, what lackest thou of me?

"Fye on thy ruddy nose, Cousin! Why be thine eyes so small?

Why go thy legs tap-lappetty like men that fear to fall? Why is thy leathern doublet besmeared with stain and spot? Go to. Thou art no man (she saith)—thou art a Pottlepot!"

"No man," i' faith. "No man!" she saith. And "Pottlepot" thereto!

"Thou sleepest like our dog all day; thou drink'st as fishes do."

I would that I were Tibb the dog; he wags at her his tail; Or would that I were fish, in truth, and all the sea were Ale!

So I drink of the Ale of Southwark, I drink of the Ale of Chepe;

All day I dream in the sunlight; I dream and eke I weep, But little lore of loving can any flagon teach,

For when my tongue is loosèd most, then most I lose my speech.

Austin Dobson [1840

THE POWER OF MALT
WHY, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh, many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,

And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink

For fellows whom it hurts to think:

Look into the pewter pot

To see the world as the world's not.
Alfred Edward Housman [1859-

A STEIN SONG

From "Spring"

GIVE a rouse, then, in the Maytime

For a life that knows no fear!

Turn night-time into daytime.

With the sunlight of good cheer!

For it's always fair weather

When good fellows get together,

With a stein on the table and a good song ringing clear.

When the wind comes up from Cuba,

And the birds are on the wing,
And our hearts are patting juba
To the banjo of the spring,

Then it's no wonder whether

The boys will get together,

With a stein on the table and a cheer for everything.

For we're all frank-and-twenty

When the spring is in the air; And we've faith and hope a-plenty, And we've life and love to spare; And it's birds of a feather When we all get together,

With a stein on the table and a heart without a care.

For we know the world is glorious,

And the goal a golden thing,

And that God is not censorious

When his children have their fling;

And life slips its tether

When the boys get together,

With a stein on the table in the fellowship of spring.

Richard Hovey [1864-1900]

THE KAVANAGH

A STONE jug and a pewter mug,
And a table set for three!

A jug and a mug at every place,
And a biscuit or two with Brie!
Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn,
And a cheese like crusted foam!
The Kavanagh receives to-night!
McMurrough is at home!

We three and the barley-bree!
And a health to the one away,
Who drifts down careless Italy,
God's wanderer and estray!