The Bards of Bacchus

They may sing of the joys of the wine-cup that dwell,
And in music the raptures of drunkenness tell,
And over the filth of debauchery throw
The splendor of genius to cover their woe;
Believe not their tale, nor the falsehood repeat,
Though the lie be in verse and its music most sweet.
From the song that’s inspired by a bottle of wine,
Though ‘tis sung by Love’s lips, turn away, brother mine.

Do they think, when they babble of pleasures that spring
From the vintage-crowned bowl, that we know not the sting
Of the serpent that hides in the beaker, though bright,
Is the sparkle that plays round its brim, like the light?
Do they tell of the fevers, the headaches, that, born
Of the midnight’s excess, crown the debaucher’s morn?
Of the pockets collapsed? of the rubicund nose?
Of the rheum in the eyes? and the gout in the toes?

Not they—precious soul! It would ruin the verse;
And why should they make what is bad enough worse?
It would topsy-turvy a cart-load of rhyme,
And convict them of sense, which in such bards is crime;
Lewd songs and lewd singing, alas! would be o’er;
Nor gin-guzzling Byron, nor wine-bibbing Moore,
Be held up as patterns for bardlings who think
That the fountain of songs is a can of strong rink!

Let them sing what they list—let live as they will,
And worship old Bacchus and guzzle his swill;
And dream, if they can, that the joy which they find
In the madd’ning debauch is a balm to the mind.
They may cheat their own souls with their songs and their lies,
But the boys of the Pledge, they have ears and have eyes—
By the wine-cup untempted, their song shall still be,
“The Fountain shall furnish the Drink of the Free!”