Horace I, 27

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Title:     Horace I, 27
Author: Eugene Field [More Titles by Field]

In maudlin spite let Thracians fight
Above their bowls of liquor,
But such as we, when on a spree,
Should never bawl and bicker!

These angry words and clashing swords
Are quite de trop, I'm thinking;
Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise,
And drown your wrath in drinking.

Aha, 'tis fine--this mellow wine
With which our host would dope us!
Now let us hear what pretty dear
Entangles him of Opus.

I see you blush--nay, comrades, hush!
Come, friend, though they despise you,
Tell me the name of that fair dame--
Perchance I may advise you.

O wretched youth! and is it truth
You love that fickle lady?
I, doting dunce, courted her once,
And she is reckoned shady!

[The end]
Eugene Field's poem: Horace I, 27

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