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There was his furniture in danger;
But thanks to Providence or fortune,
He had been barred out with the crowd.
’Twas all in vain for him to importune
With threat or curse, however loud;
The wily Chiavennian fox
Was deaf to all his shouts and knocks:
He should have been at home by rights,
But—and that “but” was the salvation
Of the two Calvinists—his nights
And noons, with others of his station,
Now oft were spent in drowning thought
Of debts and duns in Trani port.
This liquor was a god-send truly
To those who groaned beneath the ferule
Of that ecclesiastic bully,
Fuchs, of the Capuchins, and their rule.
A litre, costing six palancas,
Wiped clean from thought those rusty cankers.
Then Japhet, so the loon was christened,
Astride a barrel would denounce ’em,
With flaming cheeks and eyes that glistened
Down at the “Bœuce” and roar: “I counts ’em
No better nor a gang of fakes,
The linsey-woolsey undertakers!”
And much more to the same effect,
The Trani wines being strong and heady;
Then, when indignant and erect
He rose, protesting and unsteady,
It was a sight to see him peg off
Like a green cricket with one leg off.
