Bacchus I'll honor while I live
And while I live love wine,
But still I'll hold th' old Flanders king
And beérjug more divine.
While I have wine night's darkest shades
To mé are full moonlight,
But keep my beérpot filled all day
And I'll sleep soúnd all night.
So blessings on th' old Flanders king,
And blessings on his beer,
And cúrse upon the táx on malt,
That makes good drink so dear.
Walking from SCHOPFHEIM to GERSBACH in the BLACK FOREST (BADEN), Octob. 6, 1854.
ÓNCE it happened Í was walking
Ón a bright sunshiny morning
Through the córnfields, gáy and happy,
Lílting to myself some nonsense;
Áll at once came á políceman,
Caught me fást by the shirt cóllar,
Drágged me to the village Séssions,
Ánd before their Wórships sét me: -
"Hére 's the fellow stóle the apple,
Please your gráve and réverend Wórships;
Nów he 's in your hands do with him
Ás required by law and justice."
"Nó, I did not; it's a foul lie;
I'm no thief, stole néver ápple;
Lét me go, and thé false witness
Púnish as your Wórships think best."
"Nót so fást; it has been swórn to:
Your grandmother stóle the ápple;
That's the same in láw and jústice
Ás if you yourself had stólen it.
"Só you 're sentenced tó go always
With your coátsleeves inside oút turned,
Thát all seeing you may knów 'twas
Your grandmother stóle the ápple."
Thát ’s the reason, Gents and Ladies,
Í go álways in this fashion;
Thrów no bláme upón my tailor,
Thé fault 's áll my old grandmother's.
SUMISWALD in Canton BERN, Octob. 2, 1854.
THE húman skull is of deceit
As fúll as any egg of meat;
Fúll of deceit 's the human skull
As ány egg of meat is full.
Some eggs are addled, some are sweet,
But évery egg 's chokefúl of meat;
Cléver some skúlls, some skulls are dull,
Bút of deceit each skull's chokeful.
Lét your egg áddled be or sweet,
To have your éggshell clean and neat
The first step is: scoop out the meat;
And cléver let it be or dull,
If you would have an honest skull,
Oút you must scrape to the last grain
The vile, false, lying, pérjured brain.
VERONA, August 19, 1854.
I AM a versemaker by trade
And verses of all kinds have made,
Bád ones to win me fame and pelf,
And good ones to amuse myself.
Of various humor grave and gay
I póetise the livelong day
And sometimes sit up half the night
Some flúent nonsense to indite
About an élephant or a fly,
Or Annabel's bewitching eye,
Aboút past, present, or to come,
About America, Carthage, Rome,
Aboút high, lów, or great, or small,
Or maybe about nothing at all.
I wish you saw me when I write
Vérses for mine own delight;
I can't sit still, I jump about
Úp and down stairs, in and out;
My cheeks grow red, my eyes grow bright,
You'd swear I 'd lost my senses quite.
But when I'm set a verse to spin
That shall be sure applause to win,
Lórd, but it is an altered case!
I wouldn't my foé see in my place;
In vain my locks I twirl and pull,
And bite my nails, and thúmp my skull,
My spirit 's ebbed, my wit 's at null;
Góds, but it 's hárd work to write dull!
Thrice-gifted Wordsworth happy bard
To whom that task was never hard!
Teách me the árt intó my Muse
Not "géntle pity" to infuse,
Or fear or hópe or jealousy,
Or sweet love or philosophy
And reáson strong and manly sense,
But páltry cunning, sleek pretence,
And how to give no vice offence,
That sits installed in station high
And mixes with good company;
In áll, sufficient skill to cook
Some fiddle faddle, pious book
On drawing-room table fit to lie
And catch the idle visitor's eye
And help the author ón to fame
And pénsion and a poet's name.
Don't ask me can I nothing find
More fitting to employ my mind
And while away my idle time
Than "stringing blethers up in rhyme"
For you and other fools to sing,
For Í 'm as happy as a king:
My tróchees are my diamond crown,
My ánapests my purple gown,
My pén 's my sceptre, my inkstánd
Sérves me for révenues and land,
And as for súbjects every thing
In heaven and earth owns mé for king;
So many have I that I choose,
And take the good, the bad refuse;
Ín the whole world, I 'd like to know,
Where's th' other king that can do so?
Walking from BEUERN to WEINGARTEN (BADEN), Octob. 14-15, 1854.
"ON, to the fight!" St. Arnaud called
Though faint and like to die;
"Bring me my horse and hold me up,
We'll win the victory."
Ínto the field the hero rushed,
One held him on each side,
He won the fight, then turned about
And drooped his head and died.
BRUCHSAL in BADEN, Octob. 16, 1854.
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