Time for a Bellman!

FREDMAN’S SONGS

No. 21

Mealtime song

Then off we’ll lumber, every one,

leave Bacchus’ din and noisy shout,

when death calls to us: ‘Neighbour, come,

       your hour-glass has run out.’

You, old man, put your crutches down,

and you, sweet youth, my law obey:

the fairest nymph whose smile you own

       link arms with right away.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

You at your dram and rummer glass,

with cheeks all flushed and hat awry,

ere long your hearse will slowly pass

       and swathed in black go by!

And you who big words ne’er did shun,

your coat by stars and orders hid,

the joiner’s got your coffin done,

is planing smooth its lid!

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

But you who sit lips tightly pressed,

whom bolts, bars, iron and locks protect,

arms folded on your money chest

       shut in and circumspect;

and you who, jealous, smash again

all bottles, goblets, mirrors too,

now say goodnight, your wine-glass drain

       your rival greet anew;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

And you with titles’ fine array

who gild your beggar’s staff each year,

who though of rank can hardly pay

       the cost of your own bier;

and you who angry, idle, base

would curse your infancy’s own hearth,

will e’er display your drunken face

       down to the cup’s last half;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

You who to war have strode ahead

in bloodstained shirt at bugle’s call;

and you who romp in curtained bed,

       in Cloris’ fair arms sprawl;

and you who with your golden book

at temple’s echo stand and pause,

who shake your head with learnèd look,

       and wage disastrous wars;

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

And you who with such honest eyes

your friends blaspheme with undue zest

and at your wine them stigmatise

       and do so as in jest;

and you who fail them to defend.

though never fail them to allow

to give you drinks you then up-end,

       what is your answer now?

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

But you who till your dying day,

your host’s glass have not thought to chink

since to his table you did stray,

       although he calls out: Drink!

Force such a guest from food and wine,

Away with him and all his mob,

and wrench then with a look malign

the wine glass from his gob.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!

Say, neighbour, say, are you content?

Then praise your host when he appears.

And should we both be homeward bent,

       let’s walk together: Cheers!

But first with wine, both red and white,

let’s bow deep to our hostess fair,

and slip into the grave aright

       in evening star’s bright flare.

Is the grave too deep, both fore and aft?

Time to take yourself another draught,

once with one you’ve begun, make it two, make it three,

       and die contentedly!