Drinking Song, on the Excellence of Burgundy Wine

My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin,
         Come, open the door to us, let us come in.
         A score of stout fellows who think it no sin
         If they toast till they’re hoarse, and drink till they spin,
         Hoofed it amain
         Rain or no rain,
         To crack your old jokes, and your bottle to drain.
         Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets
         As soon as his guts with its humour he wets,
         The miser his gold, and the student his debts,
         And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets.
         For there’s never a wine
         Like this tipple of thine
         From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.
         Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go
         By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx,
         But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow,
         If the Devil’s above there’s good liquor below.
         So it abound,
         Pass it around,
         Burgundy’s Burgundy all the year round.

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