"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! Those who cannot drink their rations, Go, begone from these ovations! Here's no place for bashful boys; Like the plague, they spoil our joys.-- Bashful eyes bring rustic cheer When we're drunk, And a blush betrays a drear Want of spunk.