Poems

by Sir John Carr

This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced.

ORIGINAL.

Bekrantzt mit laub den liebe vollen becher,
Und trinkt ihn frölich leer;
In Gauz Europa ihr herren zecher,
Ist solch, ein wein micht mehr.
Ihn bringt das vaterland aus seiner fulle,
Wie wär er sonst so gut?
Wie wär er sonst so edel, stille,
Und doch voll kraft und muth?
Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre reben:
Gesegnet sey der Rhein!
Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben
Uns diesen labe wein.
So trinkt ihn dann, und lasst uns alle wege
Uns freun, und frölich seyn;
Und wüsten wir, wo jemand traurig läge,
Wir gaben ihm den wein.

TRANSLATION.

With wine-leaves crown the jovial cup,
For, search all Europe round,
You’ll say, as pleas’d you drink it up,
Such wine was never found.
Such wine, &c.
Our fathers’ land this vine supplies;
What soil can e’er produce
But this, tho’ warm’d with genial skies,
Such mild, such gen’rous juice?
Such mild, &c.
Then shall the Rhine our smiles receive,
For on its banks alone
Can e’er be found a wine to give
The soul its proper tone.
The soul, &c.
Come, put the jovial cup around,
Our joys it will enhance,
If any one is mournful found,
One sip shall make him dance.
One sip, &c.

LINES TO HEALTH,

Upon the Recovery of a Friend from a dangerous Illness.

Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!
Whene’er to thee I raise my hands
Upon the mountain’s breezy peak,
Or on the yellow winding sands,
If thou hast deign’d, by Pity mov’d,
This fev’rish phantom to prolong,
I’ve touch’d my lute, for ever lov’d,
And bless’d thee with its earliest song!
And oh! if in thy gentle ear
Its simple notes have sounded sweet,
May the soft breeze, to thee so dear,
Now bear them to thy rose-wreath’d seat!
For thou hast dried the dew of grief,
And Friendship feels new ecstacy:
To Pollio thou hast stretch’d relief,
And, raising him, hast cherish’d me.
So, whilst some treasur’d plant receives
Th’ admiring florist’s partial show’r,
The drops that tremble from its leaves
Oft feed some near uncultur’d flow’r.
For late connubial Fondness hung
Mute o’er the couch where Pollio lay;
Love, Hope, and Sorrow, fixed her tongue,
Thro’ sable night till morning grey.
There, too, by drooping Pollio’s side,
Stood Modesty, a mourner meek,
Whilst Genius, mov’d by grief and pride,
Increas’d the blush which grac’d her cheek;
For much the maiden he reprov’d
For having spread her veil of snow
Upon the mind he form’d and lov’d,
Till she was seen to mourn it too.
O Health! when thou art fled, how vain
The witchery of earth and skies,
Love’s look, or music’s sweetest strain,
Or Ocean’s softest lullabies!
Oh! ever hover near his bow’r,
There let thy fav’rite sylphs repair;
Fence it with ev’ry sweet-lipp’d flow’r,
That Sickness find no entrance there.
So shall his lyre, untouch’d so long,
The tone with which it charm’d regain;
Sweet spirit! thou shall teach his song,
With mine, to breathe the grateful strain.

AN IRISH SONG

Poor Molly O’Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
Drank so deeply of whiskey, ’twas thought she would die;
Her fond lover, Pat, from her nate cabin stole,
And stepp’d into Dublin to buy her a pie.
Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!
Tho’ chin-deep in sorrow, yet fun he lov’d well;
A pie-man pass’d near, crying “Pies” at his aise;
“Here are pies of all sorts.”—“Oh! if all sorts you sell,
Then a twopenny magpie for me, if you plaise!”
Oh! poor Molly O’Flannagan!