FROM 'THE GIPSIES'
(LES BOHÉMIENS)
To see is to have. Come, hurry anew!
Life on the wing
Is a rapturous thing.
To see is to have. Come, hurry anew!
For to see the world is to conquer it too.
THE GAD-FLY
(LA MOUCHE)
In the midst of our laughter and singing,
'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay,
What gad-fly is over us winging,
That returns when we drive him away?
'Tis some god. Yes, I have a suspicion
Of our happiness jealous, he's come:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
Transformed to a gad-fly unseemly,
I am certain that we must have here
Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely
Annoyed by our joy and our cheer.
He tells us in tones of monition
Of the clouds and the tempests to come:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing,
And says, "It is time to retire:
At your age one stops drinking and laughing,
Stops loving, nor sings with such fire;"--
An alarm that sounds ever its mission
When the sweetest of flames overcome:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
It is Reason! Look out there for Lizzie!
His dart is a menace alway.
He has touched her, she swoons--she is dizzy:
Come, Cupid, and drive him away.
Pursue him; compel his submission,
Until under your strokes he succumb.
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
Hurrah, Victory! See, he is drowning
In the wine that Lizzetta has poured.
Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning,
That again he may reign at our board.
He was threatened just now with dismission,
And a fly made us all rather glum:
But we've sent him away to perdition;
He will bore us no more with his hum.
Translation of Walter Learned.
DRAW IT MILD
(LES PETITS COUPS)
Let's learn to temper our desires,
Not harshly to constrain;
And since excess makes pleasure less,
Why, so much more refrain.
Small table--cozy corner--here
We well may be beguiled;
Our worthy host old wine can boast:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
He who would many an evil shun
Will find my plan the best--
To trim the sail as shifts the gale,
And half-seas over rest.
Enjoyment is an art--disgust
Is bred of joy run wild;
Too deep a drain upsets the brain:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
Our indigence--let's cheer it up;
'Tis nonsense to repine;
To give to Hope the fullest scope
Needs but one draught of wine.
And oh! be temperate, to enjoy,
Ye on whom Fate hath smiled;
If deep the bowl, your thirst control:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
What, Phyllis, dost thou fear? at this
My lesson dost thou scoff?
Or would'st thou say, light draughts betray
The toper falling off?
Keen taste, eyes keen--whate'er be seen
Of joy in thine, fair child,
Love's philtre use, but don't abuse:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
Yes, without hurrying, let us roam
From feast to feast of gladness;
And reach old age, if not quite sage,
With method in our madness!
Our health is sound, good wines abound;
Friends, these are riches piled.
To use with thrift the twofold gift:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
Translation of William Young.
THE KING OF YVETOT
There was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days a-bed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
And every day it came to pass,
That four lusty meals made he;
And step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
If e'er he went into excess,
'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd's fish!--must wet his whistle first;
And so from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
To all the ladies of the land
A courteous king, and kind, was he--
The reason why, you'll understand,
They named him Pater Patriae.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then
Marched back again.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
Neither by force nor false pretense,
He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence)
"Live and let live" his rule of state.
'Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by
Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing "ha, ha, ha!" and "he, he, he!
That's the sort of king for me."
Version of W.M. Thackeray.