Oh, For a Bowl of Fat Canary
Oh, for a bowl of fat Canary,
Rich Palermo, sparkling Sherry,
Some nectar else, from Juno's dairy;
Oh, these draughts would make us merry!
Oh, for a wench (I deal in faces,
And in other daintier things);
Tickled am I with her embraces,
Fine dancing in such fairy rings.
Oh, for a plump fat leg of mutton,
Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and coney;
None is happy but a glutton,
None an ass but who want money.
Wines indeed and girls are good,
But brave victuals feast the blood;
For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer,
Jove would leap down to surfeit here.
Related quotes
Song
Gran.
O For a Bowle of fatt Canary,
Rich Palermo, sparkling Sherry,
Some Nectar else, from Iuno's Daiery,
O these draughts would make vs merry.
Psyllus.
O for a wench, (I deale in faces,
And in other dayntier things,)
Tickled am I with her Embraces,
Fine dancing in such Fairy Ringes.
Manes.
O for a plump fat leg of Mutton,
Veale, Lambe, Capon, Pigge, & Conney,
None is happy but a Glutton,
None an Asse but who wants money.
Chor.
Wines (indeed,) & Girles are good,
But braue victuals feast the bloud,
For wenches, wine, and Lusty cheere,
Ioue would leape down to surfet heere.
Red, Sparkling Wine
I Have Seen A Sight
Of a Man Falling Down …
… it wasn’t for a Fight
… but it was due to what He’d Found …
… Red Sparkling Wine… Does It Every Time
Red Sparkling Wine… She Should Be A Crime …
Red Sparkling Wine…
She Starts out – Flowing – Smooth
Gets in Your Blood – Then You got Somethin’ to Prove!
You Chase Her Intoxicating Perfume
… must be Brand X … or Lady-Doom …
… Red Sparkling Wine… Does It Every Time
Red Sparkling Wine… Feeling So Sublime …
Red Sparkling Wine…
… Sweet from the Vine, but She ain’t Vintage
Make You Loose Your Mind and Your Hard-Earned Wages
Her Cheap-Thrills… can’t Heal a Heart, that’s Bruised …
You ain’t in Love! … just in a Bottle of Booze …
of Red Sparkling Wine… Once in awhile is Fine
Red Sparkling Wine… Know the Warning Signs ….
of Red Sparkling Wine…
She’s Beautiful, as She Pours
Your Problems – Passed-Out, on The Floor
She’s Crystal-Blood in an Hour-Glass
Her Pity-Promises… just don’t Last…
Red Sparkling Wine… Does It Every Time
Red Sparkling Wine… She’ll have You begging for Dimes …
… to buy … Red Sparkling Wine…
She’ll leave You Broke, You won’t be able to Think
She’s ‘Madam Dope’ … if You Need One More Drink
… of Red Sparkling Wine… Just a Matter of Time
Red Sparkling Wine… Have Another… ‘ Cause I’m …
… Red Sparkling Wine …
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Contentment
If those who live in shepherd's bower,
Press not the rich and stately bed;
The new-mown hay and breathing flower
A softer couch beneath them spread.
If those who sit at shepherd's board,
Soothe not their taste by wanton art;
They take what Nature's gifts afford,
And take it with a cheerful heart.
If those who drain the shepherd's bowl,
No high and sparkling wines can boast;
With wholesome cups they cheer the soul,
And crown them with the village toast.
If those who join in shepherd's sport,
Gay dancing on the daisied ground,
Have not the splendour of a court;
Yet love adorns the merry round.
poem by James Thomson
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Thieves' Kitchen
GOOD roaring pistol-boys, brave lads of gold,
Good roistering easy maids, blown cock-a-hoop
On floods of tavern-steam, I greet you! Drunk
With wild Canary, drowned in wines of old,
I'll swear your round, red faces dive and swim
Like clouds of fire-fish in a waxen tide,
And these are seas of smoke we thieves behold.
Yet I've a mind I know what arms enchain
With flesh my shoulders . . . aye, and what warm legs
Wind quickly into mine . . . 'tis no pale mermaid,
No water-wench that floats in a smoky main
Betwixt the tankard and my knees . . . in faith,
I know thee, Joan, and by the beard of God,
I'll prove to-night thy mortal parts again!
Leap, leap, fair vagabonds, your lives are short . . .
Dance firelit in your cauldron-fumes, O thieves,
Ram full your bellies with spiced food, gulp deep
Those goblets of thick ale—yea, feast and sport,
Ye Cyprian maids—lie with great, drunken rogues,
Jump by the fire—soon, soon your flesh must crawl
And Tyburn flap with birds, long-necked and swart!
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Chiang Chin Chiu
See the waters of the Yellow River leap down from Heaven, Roll away to the deep sea and never turn again! See at the mirror
in the High Hall Aged men bewailing white locks - In the morning, threads of silk, In the evening flakes of snow. Snatch the joys
of life as they come and use them to the full; Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon. The things that Heaven made
Man was meant to use; A thousand guilders scattered to the wind may come back again. Roast mutton and sliced beef will only
taste well If you drink with them at one sitting three hundred cups. Great Master Ts'êen, Doctor Tan-ch'iu, Here is wine, do not
stop drinking But listen, please, and I will sing you a song. Bells and drums and fine food, what are they to me Who only want
to get drunk and never again be sober? The Saints and Sages of old times are all stock and still, Only the might drinkers of wine
have left a name behind. When the prince of Ch'êen gave a feast in the Palace of P'ing-lo With twenty thousand gallons of wine
he loosed mirth and play. The master of the feast must not cry that his money is all spent; Let him send to the tavern and fetch
wine to keep our tankards filled. His five-flower horse and thousand-guilder coat - Let him call the boy to take them along and
pawn them for good wine, That drinking together we may drive away the sorrows of a thousand years.
Wine Bibber
I would rather drink than eat,
And though I superbly sup,
Food, I feel, can never beat
Delectation of the cup.
Wine it is that crowns the feast;
Fish and fowl and fancy meat
Are of my delight the least:
I would rather drink than eat.
Though no Puritan I be,
And have doubts of Kingdom Come,
With those fellows I agree
Who deplore the Demon Rum.
Gin and brandy I decline,
And I shy at whisky neat;
But give me rare vintage wine,--
Gad! I'd rather drink than eat.
Food surfeit is of the beast;
Wine is from the gods a gift.
All from prostitute to priest
Can attest to its uplift.
Green and garnet glows the vine;
Grapes grow plump in happy heat;
Gold and ruby winks the wine . . .
Come! Let's rather drink than eat.
poem by Robert William Service
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Epigram
To purify their wine some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar, as a negro's blood.
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone--
Good cause why planters never try their own.
poem by William Cowper
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The Hock-cart, Or Harvest Home:to The Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl Of Westmorland
Come, Sons of Summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a maukin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
Clad, all, in linen white as lilies.
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-Cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kiss the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves:
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat:
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers, than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
--Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef;
With upper stories, mutton, veal
And bacon, which makes full the meal,
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here, all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer:
Which freely drink to your lord's health
Then to the plough, the common-wealth;
Next to your flails, your fanes, your vats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats:
To the rough sickle, and crookt scythe,--
Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blythe.
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat,
As you, may have their fill of meat.
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hang'd up now.
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
poem by Robert Herrick
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The Hock-cart, or Harvest Home
To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef,
With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, (which makes full the meal)
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Bad Girls
(good things, good things
That bad girls do)
Bra top, tank top
Doesnt really matter cause theyre all so hot
Im going loco in puerto rico
Dark hair, tanned skin
Skating on the beach, playin innocent
They drive me crazy in miami
They know, how to, make me
Want it, crave it, need it
I love how they tease me
Its the good things that bad girls do
That makes me want to sweat, feel them wet
All over my body
Its the good things that bad girls do
Each city day or night
Theyre so fine
Im going out my mind
(good thing, good things
That bad girls do)
Nice smile, so wild
Every girl wants to get her party on
They break all the rules, in cancun
So sweet, you need
You constantly pinch yourself to believe
The games that they play, down in l.a.
They know, how to, make me
Want it, crave it, need it
I love how they work it
Its the good things that bad girls do
That makes me want to sweat, feel them wet
All over my body
Its the good things that bad girls do
Each city day or night
Theyre so fine
Im going out my mind
London city and madrid got some bad girls
Mexico and brazil got some bad girls
Dublin city and djakarta got some bad girls
Stockhlom city and berlin got some bad girls
Kuala lumpur and miami got some bad girls
Gotta really really love those bad girls
Got a thing got a thing for the bad girls
And the things they do
(good thing, good thing
That bad girls do)
Its the good things that bad girls do
That makes me want to sweat, feel them wet
All over my body
Its the good things that bad girls do
Each city day or night
Theyre so fine
Im going out my mind
They know, how to, make me
Want it, crave it, need it
I love how they tease me
Its the good things that bad girls do
That makes me want to sweat, feel them wet
All over my body
Its the good things that bad girls do
Each city day or night
Theyre so fine
Im going out my mind
song performed by by Westlife
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song- I'd be a Fairy King
Oh, I'd be a Fairy King,
With my vassals brave and bold;
We'd hunt all day,
Through the wildwood gay,
In our guise of green and gold;
And we'd lead such a merry, merry life,
That the silly, toiling bee,
Would have no sweet
In its dull retreat,
So rich as our frolic glee.
I'd be a Fairy King,
With my vassals brave and bold;
We'd hunt all day,
Through the wildwood gay,
In our guise of green and gold.
At night, when the moon spake down,
With her bland and pensive tone,
The fairest Queen
That ever was seen
Would sit on my pearly throne;
And we'd lead such a merry, merry life,
That the stars would laugh in show'rs
Of silver light,
All the summer night,
To the airs of the passing Hours.
I'd be a Fairy King,
With my vassals brave and bold;
We'd hunt all day
Through the wildwood gay,
In our guise of green and gold.
We'd talk with the dainty flow'rs,
And we'd chase the laughing brooks;
My merry men,
Through grove and glen,
Would search for the mossy nooks;
And we'd be such a merry, merry band,
Such a lively-hearted throng,
That life would seem
But a silvery dream
In the flowery Land of Song.
I'd be a Fairy King,
With my vassals brave and bold;
We'd hunt all day,
Through the wildwood gay,
In our guise of green and gold.
poem by Charles Sangster
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A Christmas Carol
So now is come our joyful'st feast,
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak'd-meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury 't in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.
Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bag-pipe and a tabor.
Young men and maids and girls and boys
Give life to one another's joys,
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.
Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth,
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folk themselves advance,
For crowdy-mutton's come out of France.
And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.
Ned Swash hath fetch'd his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel;
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.
Now poor men to the justices
With capons make their arrants,
And if they hap to fail of these
They plague them with their warrants.
But now they feed them with good cheer,
And what they want they take in beer,
For Christmas comes but once a year,
And then they shall be merry.
Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else were undone.
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride at London.
There the roisters they do play,
Drab and dice their land away,
Which may be ours another day;
And therefore let's be merry.
The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner's heart is eased,
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others' purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,
And therefore let's be merry.
Hark how the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark how the roofs with laughters sound!
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry.
The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing,
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.
Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play at noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at rowlandhoe,
And twenty other gameboys moe,
Because they will be merry.
Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller.
And, whilst thus inspir'd we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring,
Woods and hills and everything,
Bear witness we are merry.
poem by George Wither
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Seamen Three
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be;
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine;
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Three Men of Gotham
SEAMEN three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be.--
In a bowl Care may not be.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No: in charmed bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine.--
And your ballast is old wine.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Wreath the Bowl
Wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us,
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid
The wreaths be hid
That Joy, the enchanter, brings us,
No danger fear,
While wine is near --
We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then, wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us.
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
'Twas nectar fed
Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos,
And man may brew
His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar, splendid!
So, wreath the bowl,
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us,
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Say, why did Time
His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly?
Oh, lend it us,
And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we'll sever,
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever!
Then, wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Vino, Dinero Y Amor
(words & music by sid tepper and roy c. bennett)
Viva el vino, viva el dinero
Viva, viva
El amor
I like to drink wine, and money is fine
But I like the girls even more
Viva el vino, viva el dinero, viva viva el amor
Some pesos you pass, put wine in her glass
And soon she will say si senor
Viva el vino, viva el dinero, viva viva el amor
With wine on your lips and money in your pocket
And your sweetheart in your arms
Youre rich as you can be
So lift up your glass, lets sing it all together
Muchachas, caballeros, make this toast with me
Well drink one more time, with money and wine
Lets drink to the girls we adore
Viva el vino, viva el dinero, viva viva el amor
Sing one more time, money and wine
Lets sing to the girls we adore
Viva el vino, viva el dinero, viva viva...
El amor
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Go East, Young Man
(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
Im gonna go where the desert sun is
Go where I know the fun is
Go where the harem girls dance
Go where theres love and romance
Out on the burning sands, in some caravan
Ill find adventure, while I can
To say the least, go on, go east young man
Go east young man, go east young man
Youll feel like a sheik, so rich and grand
With dancing girls at your command
Go eat and drink and feast, go east young man
Im gonna go where the nights enchanted
Go where those dreams are granted
When paradise starts calling, into some tent Im crawling
I hear those desert drums, and when nighttime comes
Then Ill make love the way I planned
To say the least, go on, go east young man
Go east young man, go east young man
Youll feel like a sheik, so rich and grand
With dancing girls at your command
Go eat and drink and feast, go east young man
Go eat and drink and feast, go east young man
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Amontillado
Amontillado
Fortunato, I am called.
My friends rate me a connoisseur.
Tonight I wear a jester’s garb
for the feast day of misrule.
Tonight is fine, the wine flows free
With honeyed sweetness on my lips
My headgear rings with happiness
as I enjoy another sip..
Montresor came to speak with me
He wore a mask and monkish gown.
I shook the hand he offered me.
We spoke about a cask of wine.
A cask of sherry, dark and sweet
Amontillado- so he claimed
My friend had paid a premium.
Wished me to judge and share his gain.
He thought he’d ask Luchresi’s help
But that man is no judge of wine.
Give him grape juice in a cup
And Luchresi would exclaim “How fine”
I took his arm and off we went,
Not knowing how this night would end.
I went quite willing to my doom
with this fiend I thought a friend.
Montressor’s servants were away
Leaving he and I alone
He poured for me a warming glass
then led me to the catacombs.
We sampled others of his wines
to keep the cold and damp away.
I coughed and could not catch my breath.
But from my goal could not be swayed.
In the darkness of the tombs
Among Montressor’s ancestral bones
He victimized my drunkenness
I found myself chained to the stones.
I quickly learned it was no jest
I screamed in vain- none heard my cry
As he with brick and mortar built
this prison tomb where I will die..
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Fairy Pendant
Scene: A circle of Druidic stones
First Fairy: Afar from our lawn and our levee,
O sister of sorrowful gaze!
Where the roses in scarlet are heavy
And dream of the end of their days,
You move in another dominion
And hang o'er the historied stone:
Unpruned in your beautiful pinion
Who wander and whisper alone.
All: Come away while the moon's in the woodland,
We'll dance and then feast in a dairy.
Though youngest of all in our good band,
You are wasting away, little fairy.
Second Fairy: Ah! cruel ones, leave me alone now
While I murmur a little and ponder
The history here in the stone now;
Then away and away I will wander,
And measure the minds of the flowers,
And gaze on the meadow-mice wary,
And number their days and their hours--
All: You're wasting away, little fairy.
Second Fairy: O shining ones, lightly with song pass,
Ah! leave me, I pray you and beg.
My mother drew forth from the long grass
A piece of a nightingle's egg,
And cradled me here where are sung,
Of birds even, longings for aery
Wild wisdoms of spirit and tongue.
All: You're wasting away, little fairy.
First Fairy [turning away]: Though the tenderest roses were round you,
The soul of this pitiless place
With pitiless magic has bound you--
Ah! woe for the loss of your face,
And the loss of your laugh with its lightness--
Ah! woe for your wings and your head--
Ah! woe for your eyes and their brightness--
Ah! woe for your slippers of red.
We'll dance and then feast in a dairy.
Though youngest of all in our good band,
She's wasting away, little fairy.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If i were a rich biatch!
If i was rich,
i'd buy lots of things,
glitzy bits,
and diamond rings,
there would be,
no money rashings,
i'd have to follow,
the trendy fashions,
i'd eat out in expensive places,
and you would still see,
the same old wasters,
if i were rich,
i'd have no money worries,
i would get down to the shops in a hurry,
but i'm not rich,
and i never will be,
i work hard for my money,
and that is me!
poor or rich?
i can't choose which,
but i will never be a rich biatch! !
poem by Emma Jane Rae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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