They sleep beneath the fresh green turf.
The lover and the lady—
And the maidens wail to hear the tale
Of the daughter of the Cadi!
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THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER
Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler
down;
He has dropped—that star of honour—on the field of his
renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your
knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you
please.
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half
with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail
in door!
Widely o'er the earth I've wandered; where the drink
most freely flowed,
I have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker
strode.
Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dreamed o'er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaffed the rich
sherbet,
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my
hock;
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er
Monsoon,
Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the
Moon;