Stars, who set beneath the wineshop, where “the men must have a drink”:
So the idler leads the peasant down the path where he will sink,
Till discredited, discarded, game for snobs who “stand a treat,”
The old guide of twenty summers touts for custom in the street!
Lads, whose prate is never-ceasing, till the table d’hôte is crammed
With the gendarmes you have collared, and the cols you’ve spitzed or kammed!
Not for you the friendly Wirthshaus, where the Pfarrer plays the host,
Or the vine-hung Osteria, where the bowls go rattling most;
Not for you the liquid splendour of the sunset, as it dies,
Not for you the silver silence and the spaces of the skies,