Though written in Latin, the Goliardic verse has abandoned the ancient metrical system for the rhyme and accent of modern poetry, but even the best of modern versions, such as those of John Addington Symonds, from which I am quoting, fail to render the swing, the lilt, the rhythmical flow of the original. Its authors are familiar with classical mythology and especially with the writings of Ovid, whose precepts, copied even in severe Cluny, were freely followed. Most of all is this poetry classical in its frankly pagan view of life. Its gods are Venus and Bacchus, also Decius, the god of dice. Love and wine and spring, life on the open road and under the blue sky, these are the common subjects; the spirit is that of an intense delight in the world that is, a joy in mere living, such as one finds in the Greek and Roman poets or in that sonorous song of a later age which the academic world still cherishes, Gaudeamus igitur iuvenes dum sumus. In general the Goliardic poetry is of an impersonal sort, giving us few details from any particular place, but reflecting the gayer, more jovial, less reputable side of the life of mediaeval clerks. The worshipful order of vagrants is described, open to men of every condition and every clime, with its rules which are no rules, late-risers, gamesters, roysterers, proud that none of its members has more than one coat to his back, begging their way from town to town with requests for money which sound like students’ letters in verse: I, a wandering scholar lad, Born for toil and sadness, Oftentimes am driven by Poverty to madness. Literature and knowledge I Fain would still be earning, Were it not that want of pelf Makes me cease from learning. These torn clothes that cover me Are too thin and rotten; Oft I have to suffer cold, By the warmth forgotten. Scarce I can attend at church, Sing God’s praises duly; Mass and vespers both I miss, Though I love them truly. Oh, thou pride of N----, By thy worth I pray thee Give the suppliant help in need, Heaven will sure repay thee. Take a mind unto thee now Like unto St. Martin; Clothe the pilgrim’s nakedness, Wish him well at parting. So may God translate your soul Into peace eternal, And the bliss of saints be yours In His realm supernal. The brethren greet each other at wayside taverns with songs like this: We in our wandering, Blithesome and squandering, Tara, tantara, teino! Eat to satiety, Drink with propriety; Tara, tantara, teino! Laugh till our sides we split, Rags on our hides we fit; Tara, tantara, teino! Jesting eternally, Quaffing infernally: Tara, tantara, teino! etc. The assembled topers are described in another poem: