Classic Poem

(Ballade et oraison)

Father Noah, who planted the vine;
You also Lot, who drank merrily,
And who 'neath the glamour of drink divine
Tasted your daughters' virginity
(Though nought of reproach I make, not I);
Architriclin, who made drink an art —
I pray you three to this toast reply,
The soul of the good master Jehan Cotart.

Born of your lineage and your line,
He drank of the best and of price most high,
Never had he a sou to shine,
Yet good wine always could he descry.
Drinkers never yet found him shy,
None from his pot could make him part.
Noble lords, let no man decry
The soul of the good master Jehan Cotart.

Oft have I seen him totter and twine
When he'd go off on his bed to lie.
He banged his head when once in wine
On a butcher's stall, and was like to die.
High or low, or far or nigh,
Never such drinker could match your heart.
So let it in if you hear it sigh,
The soul of the good master Jehan Cotart.

ENVOI

Prince, 'twas ever and ay his cry,
" Haro! Lord! how my throat does smart! "
Pray where it is 'tis no longer dry,
The soul of the good master Jehan Cotart.