I dreamed there was once held a feast:
That lords assembled, most and least,
And set them down to dine;
Till, eating ended — high of heart
Each guest, — the butler did his part,
Poured out their proper wine.

Good tipple and of various growth
(You may believe without an oath)
Glorified every glass:
All drank in honour of the host,
Then — high of heart, — rose least and most,
And left the room — alas.

For in rushed straightway loon and lout,
Mere servingmen who skulked without:
" Our masters turn their backs,
And now's the time to taste and try
What meat lords munch, — and, by and by,
What wine they swill — best smacks."

So said, so dine: first, hunger spends
Its rage on victual, odds and ends:
But seeing that rage appeased,
" Now for the lords' wine," all agree,
" Kept from the like of you and me!
Wet whistles, chins once greased!

" How! not content with loading crop,
These lords have scarcely left a drop
In every glass deep-drained!
The niggards mean our feast to prove
A horse-regale! But, one remove
From wine is water stained.

" Fill up each glass with water! Get
Such flavour as may stick fast yet,
Fancy shall do the rest!
Besides we boast our private flasks,
Good stiff mundungus, home-brewed casks
Beating their bottled best!

" So here's your health to watered port!
Thanks: mine is sherry of a sort.
Claret, though thinnish clear.
My Burgundy's the genuine stuff —
Bettered and bittered just enough
By mixing it with beer."

Oh, England (I awoke and laughed)
True wine thy lordly Poets quaffed,
Yet left — for, what cared they! —
Each glass its heel-tap — flavouring sup
For flunkeys when, to liquor up,
In swarmed — who, need I say!