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Title: Horace I, 18
Author: Eugene Field [
More Titles by Field]
O Varus mine
Plant thou the vine
Within this kindly soil of Tibur;
Nor temporal woes
Nor spiritual knows
The man who's a discreet imbiber.
For who doth croak
Of being broke
Or who of warfare, after drinking?
With bowl atween us,
Of smiling Venus
And Bacchus shall we sing, I'm thinking.
Of symptoms fell
Which brawls impel
Historic data give us warning;
The wretch who fights
When full of nights
Is bound to have a head next morning.
I do not scorn
A friendly horn,
But noisy toots--I can't abide 'em!
Your howling bat
Is stale and flat
To one who knows, because he's tried 'em!
The secrets of
The life of love
(Companionship with girls and toddy)
I would not drag
With drunken brag
Into the ken of everybody,
But in the shade
Let some coy maid
With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle--
Then, all day long,
With mirth and song,
Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle!
[The end]
Eugene Field's poem: Horace I, 18
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