“Famine through all lands prevaileth,
    Terror-struck the people waileth,
      When I choose to keep away;
    Christians kneel to Christ to gain me,
    Jews and Pagans to obtain me
      Ceaseless vows and offerings pay.”

    Wine saith:  “To the deaf thou’rt singing,
    Those vain self-laudations flinging! 
      Otherwhere thou hast been shown! 
    Patent ’tis to all the races
    How impure and foul thy place is;
      We believe what we have known!

    “Thou of things the scum and rotten
    Sewer, where ordures best forgotten
      And unmentioned still descend! 
    Filth and garbage, stench and poison. 
    Thou dost bear in fetid foison! 
      Here I stop lest words offend.”

    Water rose, the foe invaded,
    In her own defence upbraided
      Wine for his invective base: 
    “Now at last we’ve drawn the curtain! 
    Who, what god thou art is certain
      From thy oracle’s disgrace.

    “This thine impudent oration
    Hurts not me; ’tis desecration
      To a god, and fouls his tongue! 
    At the utmost at nine paces
    Can I suffer filthy places,
      Fling far from me dirt and dung!”

    Wine saith:  “This repudiation
    Of my well-weighed imputation
      Doth not clear thyself of crime! 
    Many a man and oft who swallowed
    Thine infected potion, followed
      After death in one day’s time.”

    Hearing this, in stupefaction
    Water stood; no words, no action,
      Now restrained her sobs of woe. 
    Wine exclaims, “Why art thou dumb then? 
    Without answer?  Is it come then
      To thy complete overthrow?”

    I who heard the whole contention
    Now declare my song’s intention,
      And to all the world proclaim: 
    They who mix these things shall ever
    Henceforth be accursed, and never
      In Christ’s kingdom portion claim.

The same precept, “Keep wine and water apart,” is conveyed at the close of a lyric distinguished in other respects for the brutal passion of its drunken fervour.  I have not succeeded in catching the rollicking swing of the original verse; and I may observe that the last two stanzas seem to form a separate song, although their metre is the same as that of the first four.

BACCHIC FRENZY.

No. 52.

    Topers in and out of season! 
    ’Tis not thirst but better reason
      Bids you tope on steadily!—­
      Pass the wine-cup, let it be
      Filled and filled for bout on bout
                Never sleep! 
      Racy jest and song flash out! 
                Spirits leap!