If there's here a fellow lurking Who his proper share is shirking, Let the door to him be shown, From our crew we'll have him thrown;-- He's more desolate than death, Mixed with us; Let him go and end his breath! Better thus! When your heart is set on drinking, Drink on without stay or thinking, Till you cannot stand up straight, Nor one word articulate!-- But herewith I pledge to you This fair health: May the glass no mischief do, Bring you wealth! Wed not you the god and goddess, For the god doth scorn the goddess; He whose name is Liber, he Glories in his liberty. All her virtue in the cup Runs to waste, And wine wedded yieldeth up Strength and taste. Since she is the queen of ocean, Goddess she may claim devotion; But she is no mate to kiss His superior holiness. Bacchus never deigned to be Watered, he! Liber never bore to be Christened, he! XX. Closely allied to drinking-songs are some comic ditties which may have been sung at wine-parties. Of these I have thought it worth while to present a few specimens, though their medieval bluntness of humour does not render them particularly entertaining to a modern reader. The first I have chosen is _The Lament of the Roast Swan_. It must be remembered that this bird was esteemed a delicacy in the Middle Ages, and also that pepper was highly prized for its rarity. This gives a certain point to the allusion in the third stanza. THE LAMENT OF THE ROAST SWAN. No. 53. Time was my wings were my delight, Time was I made a lovely sight; 'Twas when I was a swan snow-white. Woe's me! I vow, Black am I now, Burned up, back, beak, and brow! The baster turns me on the spit, The fire I've felt the force of it, The carver carves me bit by bit. I'd rather in the water float Under the bare heavens like a boat, Than have this pepper down my throat. Whiter I was than wool or snow, Fairer than any bird I know; Now am I blacker than a crow. Now in the gravy-dish I lie, I cannot swim, I cannot fly, Nothing but gnashing teeth I spy. Woe's me! I vow, &c. The next is _The Last Will of the Dying Ass_. There is not much to be said for the wit of this piece. THE WILL OF THE DYING ASS. No. 54. While a boor, as poets tell, Whacked his patient ass too well, On the ground half dead it fell. La sol fa, On the ground half dead it fell, La sol fa mi re ut. Then with gesture sad and low, Streaming eyes and words of woe, He at length addressed it so: "Had I known, my gentle ass, Thou from me so soon wouldst pass, I'd have swaddled thee, alas!