112
It needed just that other strand of
Coincidence—a vintage season
Unrivalled in the fabled land of
Brigands and knives and popish treason
And Policastrian pirates coasting—
To save Sir Blasio from his roasting.
In fact, o’er far Calabria’s hovels,
Where pigs and Christians share the bowl
And priests parade with coal-black shovels
On inch-thick skulls, and bless the whole;
Where blear-eyed brats o’er muck heaps clamber,
And sows lie farrowing in the chamber,
Had burst a perfect vinous deluge
And turned the vats and casks to sluices,
In fact, in all the land no well huge
Enough to hold the surplus juices
Was found, they rushed down oyer-brimming
Troughs—dykes—the very fields were swimming.
The folk there with that want of sense,
Which is the note of priest-rid regions,
Had never had the providence
To cooper casks for these occasions,
So that a vintage to excess in
These lands was more a curse than blessing.
The roads were bad, the means of transit
Far worse, and buyers next to nil,
Folk could not all the autumn dance it
And drink—the very pigs took ill:
Excess of good cheer turned to loathing
And then the wine went off for nothing.
