His Hostess
Our little Syrian Hostess, the diademed, the fair,
Who crisply to the music moves her side with such an air,
Has dancing at her house to-day, and looks for all her friends
To see her shake her castanets, all at her fingers' ends.
What man on earth, I wish to know, would chuse to be away,
Instead of going there to drink, on such a dusty day?
Instead of going there to drink, and lying on a bed,
With cups, and cans, and flutes, and flowers, and an arbour for his head?
There 's one that plays a pan-pipe within a pretty cave,
Just like a rustic shepherd; — I wonder what you'd have!
And there 's a very pleasant wine, as neat as it can be;
And a proper brook, a hoarse one, to run respectably;
And there are garlands for your locks, of yellow mixed with blue,
Both violets and crocusses, and there are roses too:
And there are lilies such as those that drink the virgin stream,
Which osier-twisting nymphs collect in baskets of the same;
Cheeses that come in baskets too — I nearly had forgot 'em;
And prunes and other pretty meats, which people make in autumn.
Chestnuts of course, and apples, whose cheeks go reddening sweetly;
And bread and wine, and love besides, to relish all completely.
I needn't speak of heaps of grapes, nor mulberries blood-red;
And you may have a cucumber a hanging by your head.
Take notice — there 's a scare-crow, just where the thickest shade is,
But he has nothing terrible, to frighten the young ladies.
Come, Alibida, my fat friend, who lovest watering-places,
You and your donkey, both of you, come rest, and wipe your faces.
The grasshoppers all sing so loud, they burst the bushes, man,
And the lizards run and get, you see, in the coldest nooks they can.
Come, if you're wise, and give a loose to laughter and your stays.
A flask or bottle? You know best the most genteelest ways.
Come rest yourself, and take your couch beneath this leafy vine,
And renovate with roses that heavy head of thine;
Still better flowers are here to pluck, — a pretty mouth and kisses:
Ah! perish those who'd bring old frowns to such a place as this is.
Why should we keep our odorous flowers to give the thankless dead?
Will any tombstone feel for us, for all its crowned head?
The wine! The dice! Tomorrow's turn is but a chance dominion;
" Live, for I come," says Death himself; and I'm of Death's opinion.
Who crisply to the music moves her side with such an air,
Has dancing at her house to-day, and looks for all her friends
To see her shake her castanets, all at her fingers' ends.
What man on earth, I wish to know, would chuse to be away,
Instead of going there to drink, on such a dusty day?
Instead of going there to drink, and lying on a bed,
With cups, and cans, and flutes, and flowers, and an arbour for his head?
There 's one that plays a pan-pipe within a pretty cave,
Just like a rustic shepherd; — I wonder what you'd have!
And there 's a very pleasant wine, as neat as it can be;
And a proper brook, a hoarse one, to run respectably;
And there are garlands for your locks, of yellow mixed with blue,
Both violets and crocusses, and there are roses too:
And there are lilies such as those that drink the virgin stream,
Which osier-twisting nymphs collect in baskets of the same;
Cheeses that come in baskets too — I nearly had forgot 'em;
And prunes and other pretty meats, which people make in autumn.
Chestnuts of course, and apples, whose cheeks go reddening sweetly;
And bread and wine, and love besides, to relish all completely.
I needn't speak of heaps of grapes, nor mulberries blood-red;
And you may have a cucumber a hanging by your head.
Take notice — there 's a scare-crow, just where the thickest shade is,
But he has nothing terrible, to frighten the young ladies.
Come, Alibida, my fat friend, who lovest watering-places,
You and your donkey, both of you, come rest, and wipe your faces.
The grasshoppers all sing so loud, they burst the bushes, man,
And the lizards run and get, you see, in the coldest nooks they can.
Come, if you're wise, and give a loose to laughter and your stays.
A flask or bottle? You know best the most genteelest ways.
Come rest yourself, and take your couch beneath this leafy vine,
And renovate with roses that heavy head of thine;
Still better flowers are here to pluck, — a pretty mouth and kisses:
Ah! perish those who'd bring old frowns to such a place as this is.
Why should we keep our odorous flowers to give the thankless dead?
Will any tombstone feel for us, for all its crowned head?
The wine! The dice! Tomorrow's turn is but a chance dominion;
" Live, for I come," says Death himself; and I'm of Death's opinion.
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