Anacreontics (Benson, 1872)/Forestier
FORESTIER.
4 SPECIMEN OF THE PUFF POETICAL.
(1851.)
I have a friend, one P. C. K,
Who selleth the best of all Champagne.
Champagne wine is good, I wot,
Whether the weather be cold or hot;
When Boreas blows,
And you're almost froze,
From the tip of your nose
To the tips of your toes,
Then how your heart glows
As the beverage flows
That makes you see everything couleur de rose:
Or in the dog-days,
When the sun's fierce rays
Set all in a blaze,
And your blood seems to boil,
And your butter turns oil,
And the freshest of chops and steaks will spoil,
And your face grows brown,
And your collars drop down,
And there isn't a soul that you know left in town,
Save in Wall street, where Brokers, by way of preparing
For the still hotter temperature whither they're faring,
Keep shaving and cornering, bulling and bearing,
(If the Editor shrinks
From this stanza, and thinks
Such an insinuation might possibly stop all his
Circulation in this our commercial metropolis.
Why then he may just
Leave it out and be—blessed,
Or fill up with asterisks as he likes best)
And your poor tired muse
Beseechingly wooes
The balmiest breezes of eve to come at her—
In short, under every stage of thermometer
All times and all seasons are good for Champagne,
Especially that of P. C. K.
Some years ago there was going on
A great deal of talk about Du Brimont
And after that again years a few
There was still more talk about Cordon Bleu
And 'tis now the fashion to talk about Mumm
(The very name says, in its praises be dumb)
And some about Heidseck will prate for a week (it
Might hide very long before I would seek it)
And your grave Bostonian so stately of pace,
With second hand English writ in his face,
Of whom you may say without any libel, he
Claims to be master of omne scibile
And in every thing to be men's guider
Will talk to you half an hour about Schreider;
At one time Bacchanals all confest
That Brigham's Sillery was the best,
It used to gladden me when I spied
His grape leaf gilt on a bottle's side
But pallida mors who lets none escape
Without leave stalked away with our grape;
And a very good fellow well known to me
Hangs out a wine that they call N. B.
If any one's cross or troubled with spleen, he
Will find it a capital Nota bene
But I'm sure there never was any Champagne
Like the Forestier brand of P. C. K.—
And I remember it happened to me
When I was a Cantab at Trinity;
A friend who lived in the land of the Gaul
Sent me some wine that was rather tall.
The name I was stupid enough to forget,
But the smack of the juice I remember yet.
'Twas a creamy wine of roseate hue
Like rubies dissolved in ambrosial dew,
And we brought in good fellows not a few
To carry a rich Symposium through.
Oh 'twas a goodly sight to see
The mirth of that revelling company!
The Celts that meet about the Park so notedly irascible
So prominent in everything that's make-a-man-jack-ass-able,
Could not have made more noise than we and scarce have been more riotous;
We got a going such a pace no mortal man could quiet us;
For one rose up and speechified and one sat down and sang,
Another laughed the while he quaffed until the old roof rang,
And one was quoting Addison, and one was quoting Rabelais,
And one declaring Locksley Hall was by no means a shabby lay
And one far gone, with something twixt a hiccup and a cough in his
Throat, lay along ejaculating scraps of Aristophanes.
Now this was remarkably tall Champagne,
But nothing to that of P. C. K.—
And if you would know
Where you must go
To get the wine
That is so divine,
Whenever you feel like a fit of the blues
Take up your hat and put your shoes
(Or boots, as the case may be) on your feet,
And go down to 80 Beaver Street,
In there is the office of P. C. K,
And there you will find the best Champagne.