It's Lensky's troika, three fine roans;
'Come on, let's dine, my stomach groans!'
45
Mot, that wine most blest and heady,
Or Veuve Cliquot, the finest class,
Is brought in bottle chilled and ready
And set beside the poet's glass.
Like Hippocrene* it sparkles brightly,
It fizzes, foams, and bubbles lightly
(A simile in many ways);
It charmed me too, in other days:
For its sake once, I squandered gladly
My last poor pence . . . remember, friend?
Its magic stream brought forth no end
Of acting foolish, raving madly,
And, oh, how many jests and rhymes,
And arguments, and happy times!
46
But all that foamy, frothy wheezing
Just plays my stomach false,
I fear; And nowadays I find more pleasing
Sedate Bordeaux's good quiet cheer.
Ai* I find is much too risky,
A is like a mistressfrisky,
Vivacious, brilliant. . . and too light.
But you, Bordeaux, I find just right;
You're like a comrade, ever steady,
Prepared in trials or in grief
To render service, give relief;
And when we wish it, always ready
To share a quiet evening's end.
Long live Bordeaux, our noble friend!
47
The fire goes out; the coal, still gleaming,
Takes on a film of ash and pales;
The rising vapours, faintly streaming,
Curl out of sight; the hearth exhales
A breath of warmth. The pipe smoke passes
Up chimney flue. The sparkling glasses
Stand fizzing on the table yet;
With evening's gloom, the day has set. . .
(I'm fond of friendly conversation
And of a friendly glass or two
At dusk or
As people say without translation,
Though why they do, I hardly know).
But listen as our friends speak low:
48
'And how are our dear neighbours faring?
Tatyana and your Olga, pray? . . .
