"Bring dinner now without delay!"

XXXV.

Upon the table in a trice

Of widow Clicquot or Moet

A blessed bottle, placed in ice,

For the young poet they display.

Like Hippocrene it scatters light,

Its ebullition foaming white

(Like other things I could relate)

My heart of old would captivate.

The last poor obol I was worth -

Was it not so? - for thee I gave,

And thy inebriating wave

Full many a foolish prank brought forth;

And oh! what verses, what delights,

Delicious visions, jests and fights!

XXXVI.

Alas! my stomach it betrays

With its exhilarating flow,

And I confess that now-a-days

I prefer sensible Bordeaux.

To cope with Ay no more I dare,

For Ay is like a mistress fair,

Seductive, animated, bright,

But wilful, frivolous, and light.

But thou, Bordeaux, art like the friend

Who in the agony of grief

Is ever ready with relief,

Assistance ever will extend,

Or quietly partake our woe.

All hail! my good old friend Bordeaux!

XXXVII.

The fire sinks low. An ashy cloak

The golden ember now enshrines,

And barely visible the smoke