  My Offspring:—Ere you raise the glass, To irrigate your ardent throttle; Ere once again you gladly pass The bottle; Take heed that your prevailing passion Be not completely out of fashion. No longer does the Prodigal Expend his nights in drunken frolic; Or pass his days in revels al-Coholic; For, nowadays, a glass de trop Is not considered comme il faut. No longer do the youthful fall, Like leaf or partridge in October; For they, if anything at all, Are sober. (I mean the boys,—don’t be absurd! And not the foliage or the bird.) No longer arm-in-arm they roam, Despite constabulary warning, Declaring that they won’t go home Till morning! With bursts of bacchanalian song, And jokes as broad as they are long. No more they wander to-and-fro, Exchanging incoherent greetings— The kind in vogue at Caledo- -Nian Meetings (Behavior that we all condemn, Especially at 3 a. m.). Yes; fashions change—and well they may! No longer, at the dinner-table, Do persons drink as much as they Are able; And seek the hospitable floor, When they have drunk a trifle more. My nasal hue, incarnadine, Shall not, perhaps, be wholly wasted, If sons of mine but leave their wine Untasted; And vanquish, with deserving merit, The varied vices they inherit. Yes, Offspring, I rejoice to think That, shunning my example truly, You never may be led to drink Unduly. It is indeed a blessÈd thought! Now, will you kindly pass the port? |
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