Vat and cellar will be too small,
While at the vintage-festival,
With choral song,
The tipsy swains carouse the shepherd's god:
"Away, ye wolves, and do our folds no wrong!"

Then shall the master touch the straw-built fire,
And as it blazes high and higher,
Lightly leap its lucky crest.
A welcome heir with frolic face
Shall his jovial sire embrace,
And kiss him hard and pull him by the ears;
While o'er the cradle the good grand-sire bent
Will babble with the babe in equal merriment,
And feel no more his weight of years.

There in soft shadow of some ancient tree,
Maidens, boys, and wine-cups be,
Scattered on the pleasant grass;
From lip to lip the cups they pass;
Their own mantles garland-bound
Hang o'er-head for canopy,
And every cup with rose is crowned;
Each at banquet buildeth high
Of turf the table, and of turf the bed,--
Such was ancient revelry!
Here too some lover at his darling's head
Flings words of scorn, which by and by
He wildly prays be left unsaid,
And swears that wine-cups lie.