And shaking off the smoking sleet,
He coils him at his master’s feet,
Pointing his broad nose to the heat.
Then comes mine host into the shine,
With pipes and cups of spicèd wine,
And mellow jests, rich, ripe, and fine.
He hath a quip for every hour,
Brimful and sweet, of genial power,
For him the seasons always flower.
Across his sleeping guests he steps,—
Then sits him down; the spiced wine sips,
Blinks both his eyes and smacks his lips.
Bravely he talks, and chuckles hoarse,
When I opine the times grow worse,
And that the world has gone to nurse.
“Marry,” quoth he, “your wit’s ill-spent,
If both the good and bad are blent,
We have the middling; be content.”
And so he prates, whilst I lean back,
Watching the oak ribs hiss and crack,
Blurring the walls with bright and black.
Till vague and vast the chamber seems,
And, downward, from the knitted beams,
Falls the sweet rest that breedeth dreams.
J. F. O’Donnell.
THE ENGLISH IN PARIS.
.png){kind=spacer}
Un Anglais à Mabille.
