A month went by. They lay there still, And chafed with nothing but time to kill,-- A tough old foe. Observe the way They laid him out, as thus:--One day,-- 'Twas after dinner and afternoon, When the noise was over of knife and fork, And only was heard an occasional cork And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,-- King Richard pushed the wine along, And rapped the table, and cried, "A song! Dulness I hold a shame, a sin Against good wine. Come, Blondel, begin!" Blondel coughed,--was "half afraid,"-- Was "out last night on a serenade, And caught a cold,"--his "voice was gone,-- And really, just now, his head"--"Go on!" He bowed, and swept the chords--"Brrrrang"-- With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:--
Life is fleeting,--make it pleasant; Care for nothing but the present; For the past we leave behind us, And the future may not find us. Though we cannot shun its troubles, Care and sorrow we may banish; Though its pleasures are but bubbles, Catch the bubbles ere they vanish.
There is joy we cannot measure,-- Joy we may not win with treasure. When the glance of Beauty thrills us', When her love with rapture fills us, Let us seize it ere it passes; Be our motto, "Love is mighty." Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses! Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!
Of course they drank with a right good will, For they never missed a chance "to fill." And yet a few, I'm sorry to own, Made side-remarks in an undertone, Like those we hear, when, nowadays, Good-natured friends, with seeming praise, Contrive to damn. In the midst of the hum They heard a loud and slashing thrum: 'Twas the king: and each his breath drew in Till you might have heard a falling pin. Some little excuse, at first, he made, While over the lute his fingers strayed:-- "You know my way,--as the fancies come, I improvise."--There was ink on his thumb. That morning, alone, good hours he spent In writing despatches never sent.
There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing And Beauty is willing; but more When the war-horse is gallantly prancing And snuffing the battle afar,-- When the foe, with his banner advancing, Is sounding the clarion of war.
Where the battle is deadly and gory, Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed, Where the path is before me to glory, Is pleasure for me, and the best. Let me live in proud chivalry's story, Or die with my lance in its rest!