Wine, Women, and Song Part 5

A SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD.

No. 4.

We in our wandering, Blithesome and squandering, Tara, tantara, teino!

Eat to satiety, Drink with propriety; Tara, tantara, teino!

Laugh till our sides we split, Rags on our hides we fit; Tara, tantara, teino!

Jesting eternally, Quaffing infernally: Tara, tantara, teino!

Craft's in the bone of us, Fear 'tis unknown of us: Tara, tantara, teino!

When we're in neediness, Thieve we with greediness: Tara, tantara, teino!

Brother catholical, Man apostolical, Tara, tantara, teino!

Say what you will have done, What you ask 'twill be done!

Tara, tantara, teino!

Folk, fear the toss of the Horns of philosophy!

Tara, tantara, teino!

Here comes a quadruple Spoiler and prodigal!

Tara, tantara, teino!

License and vanity Pamper insanity: Tara, tantara, teino!

As the Pope bade us do, Brother to brother's true: Tara, tantara, teino!

Brother, best friend, adieu!

Now, I must part from you!

Tara, tantara, teino!

When will our meeting be?

Glad shall our greeting be!

Tara, tantara, teino!

Vows valedictory Now have the victory; Tara, tantara, teino!

Clasped on each other's breast, Brother to brother pressed, Tara, tantara, teino!

In the fourth place I insert the _Confession of Golias_. This important composition lays bare the inner nature of a Wandering Student, describing his vagrant habits, his volatile and indiscriminate amours, his pa.s.sion for the dice-box, his devotion to wine, and the poetic inspiration he was wont to draw from it.

In England this _Confession_ was attributed to Walter Map; and the famous drinking-song, on which the Archdeacon of Oxford's reputation princ.i.p.ally rests in modern times, was extracted from the stanzas II _et seq._[29] But, though Wright is unwilling to refuse Map such honour as may accrue to his fame from the composition, we have little reason to regard it as his work. The song was clearly written at Pavia--a point inexplicably overlooked by Wright in the note appended to stanza 9--and the Archbishop-elect of Cologne, who is appealed to by name in stanza 24, was Reinald von Da.s.sel, a minister of Frederick Barbarossa. This circ.u.mstance enables us to determine the date of the poem between 1162 and 1165. When the _Confession_ was manipulated for English readers, _Praesul Coventrensium, Praesul mibi cognite_, and _O pastor ecclesiae_ were in several MS. redactions subst.i.tuted for _Electe Coloniae_. Instead of _Papiae_, in stanza 8, we read _in mundo_; but in stanza 9, where the rhyme required it, _Papiae_ was left standing--a sufficient indication of literary rehandling by a clumsy scribe. In the text of the _Carmina Burana_, the _Confession_ winds up with a pet.i.tion that Reinald von Da.s.sel should employ the poet as a secretary, or should bestow some mark of his bounty upon him.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 29: Wright's _Walter Mapes_, p. xlv.]

THE CONFESSION OF GOLIAS.

No. 5.

Boiling in my spirit's veins With fierce indignation, From my bitterness of soul Springs self-revelation: Framed am I of flimsy stuff, Fit for levitation, Like a thin leaf which the wind Scatters from its station.

While it is the wise man's part With deliberation On a rock to base his heart's Permanent foundation, With a running river I Find my just equation, Which beneath the self-same sky Hath no habitation.

Carried am I like a s.h.i.+p Left without a sailor, Like a bird that through the air Flies where tempests hale her; Chains and fetters hold me not, Naught avails a jailer; Still I find my fellows out, Toper, gamester, railer.

To my mind all gravity Is a grave subjection; Sweeter far than honey are Jokes and free affection.

All that Venus bids me do, Do I with erection, For she ne'er in heart of man Dwelt with dull dejection.

Down the broad road do I run, As the way of youth is; Snare myself in sin, and ne'er Think where faith and truth is; Eager far for pleasure more Than soul's health, the sooth is, For this flesh of mine I care, Seek not ruth where ruth is.

Prelate, most discreet of priests, Grant me absolution!

Dear's the death whereof I die, Sweet my dissolution; For my heart is wounded by Beauty's soft suffusion; All the girls I come not nigh, Mine are in illusion.

'Tis most arduous to make Nature's self surrender; Seeing girls, to blush and be Purity's defender!

We young men our longings ne'er Shall to stern law render, Or preserve our fancies from Bodies smooth and tender.

Who, when into fire he falls, Keeps himself from burning?

Who within Pavia's walls Fame of chaste is earning?

Venus with her finger calls Youths at every turning, Snares them with her eyes, and thralls With her amorous yearning.

If you brought Hippolitus To Pavia Sunday, He'd not be Hippolitus On the following Monday; Venus there keeps holiday Every day as one day; 'Mid these towers in no tower dwells Venus Verecunda.

In the second place I own To the vice of gaming: Cold indeed outside I seem, Yet my soul is flaming: But when once the dice-box hath Stripped me to my shaming, Make I songs and verses fit For the world's acclaiming.

In the third place, I will speak Of the tavern's pleasure; For I never found nor find There the least displeasure; Nor shall find it till I greet Angels without measure, Singing requiems for the souls In eternal leisure.

In the public-house to die Is my resolution; Let wine to my lips be nigh At life's dissolution: That will make the angels cry, With glad elocution, "Grant this toper, G.o.d on high, Grace and absolution!"

With the cup the soul lights up, Inspirations flicker; Nectar lifts the soul on high With its heavenly ichor: To my lips a sounder taste Hath the tavern's liquor Than the wine a village clerk Waters for the vicar.

Nature gives to every man Some gift serviceable; Write I never could nor can Hungry at the table; Fasting, any stripling to Vanquish me is able; Hunger, thirst, I liken to Death that ends the fable.

Nature gives to every man Gifts as she is willing; I compose my verses when Good wine I am swilling, Wine the best for jolly guest Jolly hosts are filling; From such wine rare fancies fine Flow like dews distilling.

Such my verse is wont to be As the wine I swallow; No ripe thoughts enliven me While my stomach's hollow; Hungry wits on hungry lips Like a shadow follow, But when once I'm in my cups, I can beat Apollo.

Never to my spirit yet Flew poetic vision Until first my belly had Plentiful provision; Let but Bacchus in the brain Take a strong position, Then comes Phoebus flowing in With a fine precision.