It was my father’s wine,—alas!
It was his chiefest bliss
To fill an old friend’s evening glass
With nectar such as this.
I think I have as warm a heart,
As kind a friend, as he;
Another bumper ere we part!
Old wine, old wine, for me.
In this we toasted William Pitt,
Whom twenty now outshine;
O’er this we laughed at Canning’s wit,
Ere Hume’s was thought as fine;
In this “The King”—“The Church”—“The Laws”—
Have had their three times three;
Sound wine befits as sound a cause;
Old wine, old wine for me.
In this, when France in those long wars
Was beaten black and blue,
We used to drink our troops and tars,
Our Wellesley and Pellew;
Now, things are changed, though Britain’s fame
May out of fashion be,
At least my wine remains the same!
Old wine, old wine for me.
My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,
Drink French of last year’s growth;
I’m sure, however they may sham,
It disagrees with both.
I don’t pretend to interfere;
An Englishman is free;
But none of that cheap poison here!
Old wine, old wine for me.
Some dozens lose, I must allow,
Something of strength and hue;
And there are vacant spaces now
To be filled up with new;
And there are cobwebs round the bins,
Which some don’t like to see;
If these are all my cellar’s sins,
Old wine, old wine for me.