And who kept up his old mansion With a good old porter to relieve His hall so old was hung around That had stood some tough old blows; 'Twas there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, Like a fine old English gentleman When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, All of the olden time. But time, though old, is strong in flight, And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this fine old English gentleman A Ternarie of Littles 1723 Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade For all his bills were paid, Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time. Unknown A TERNARIE OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY A LITTLE Saint best fits a little Shrine, As my small Cruse best fits my little Wine. A little Seed best fits a little Soil, A little Bin best fits a little Bread, A little Garland fits a little Head, As my small Stuff best fits my little Shed. A little Hearth best fits a little Fire, As my small Bell best fits my little Spire. A little Stream best fits a little Boat, A little Lead best fits a little Float, A little Meat best fits a little Belly, Robert Herrick (1591-1674] CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT FAIR Cousin mine! the golden days Of old romance are over; And minstrels now care naught for bays, And hearts are cold, and lips are mute Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time Now wedlock is a sober thing No more of chains or forges! A plain young man—a plain gold ring— Then every cross-bow had a string, And making love was quite the thing, And maiden-aunts were never seen, And gallant beaux were plenty; And lasses married at sixteen, And died at one-and-twenty. Then hawking was a noble sport, And chess a pretty science; And huntsmen learned to blow a morte, And heralds a defiance; And knights and spearmen showed their might, And timid hinds took warning; And hypocras was warmed at night, And coursers in the morning. Then plumes and pennons were prepared, And patron-saints were lauded; And noble deeds were bravely dared, And noble dames applauded. Chivalry at a Discount And Beauty played the leech's part, Then there was no such thing as Fear, And hearts were soft, though blows were hard; A brimming goblet cheered the board, Ay, those were golden days! The moon And there were lyres and lutes in tune, Then people wore an iron vest, And jesters wore a cap and bell, Then single folks might live at ease, 1725 Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883) THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is- Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, I wonder if the house still there is? I recollect his droll grimace; And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;"Monsieur is dead this many a day.” |