A Bacchanalian

They make their feasts, and fill their cups—
They drink the rosy wine—
They seek for pleasure in the bowl:—
Their search is not like mine.
From misery I freedom seek—
I crave relief from pain;
From hunger, poverty, and cold—
I'll go get drunk again!

The wind doth through my garments run—
I'm naked to the blast;
Two days have fluttered o'er my head
Since last I broke my fast.
But I'll go drink, and straightway clad
In purple I shall be;
And I shall feast at tables spread
With rich men's luxury!

My wife is naked,—and she begs
Her bread from door to door;
She sleeps on clay each night beside
Her hungry children four!
She drinks—I drink: for why? it drives
All poverty away;
And starving babies grow again
Like happy children gay!

In broad-cloth clad, with belly full,
A sermon you can preach;
But hunger, cold, and nakedness,
Another song would teach.
I'm bad and vile—what matters that
To outcasts such as we?
Bread is denied—come, wife, we'll drink,
Again, and happy be!

Robert Nicoll