Omar Khayyam

HOUGH many a great Philosopher Has earned the Epicure's diploma, Not one of them, as I aver, So much deserved the prize as Omar; For he, without the least misgiving, Combined High Thinking and High Living.

He lived in Persia, long ago, Upon a somewhat slender pittance; And Persia is, as you may know, The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens, (A quite consistent habitat, Since "Shah," of course, is French for "cat.") He lived—as I was saying, when You interrupted, impolitely— Not loosely, like his fellow-men, But, vicê versâ, rather tightly; And drank his share, so runs the story, And other people's, con amore. A great Astronomer, no doubt, He often found some Constellation Which others could not see without Profuse internal irrigation; And snakes he saw, and crimson mice, Until his colleagues rang for ice. Omar, who owned a length of throat As dry as the proverbial "drummer," And quite believed that (let me quote) "One swallow does not make a summer," Supplied a model to society Of frank, persistent insobriety. * * * * * Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet, Until, when indisposed for more, Your puzzled, inadhesive feet Elude the smooth revolving floor. What matter doubts, despair or sorrow? To-day is Yesterday To-morrow! Oblivion in the bottle win, Let finger-bowls with vodka foam, And seek the Open Port within Some dignified Inebriates' Home; Assuming there, with kingly air, A crown of vine-leaves in your hair! A book of verse (my own, for choice), A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda, A lady with a tuneful voice, Beside me in some dim pagoda! A cellar—if I had the key,— Would be a Paradise to me! In cosy seat, with lots to eat, And bottles of Lafitte to fracture (And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet Recalls the mode of manufacture)— I contemplate, at easy distance, The troublous problems of existence. For even if it could be mine To change Creation's partial scheme, To mould it to a fresh design, More nearly that of which I dream, Most probably, my weak endeavour Would make more mess of it than ever! So let us stock our cellar shelves With balm to lubricate the throttle; For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves," So help yourself, and pass the bottle! . . . . . . What! Would you quarrel with my moral? (Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)