Bohemian Wit and Humor
UP, beggars! Be joyful, for joy is our own;
Our garments are tattered, and bald is our crown.
Beloved, want presses us; what shall we do?
Why, want is one wo, discontent would make two!
Let’s enter the inn, though we stay but a minute,
For the bottle looks mournful when nothing is in it;
Legs weary, bags empty, and what shall we do?
Why, bearing one burden, we need not make two!
On Friday we dine, from a halfpenny pot;
Sour broth, ragged bones, bread and water we’ve got.
And fish? To be sure — in the Danube, the sea,
Which are fresher and sweeter than caught fish can be.
Then Saturday comes — that’s perplexing and rude —
And Sunday, with hunger; but where is the food?
We sit at the table — to eat;
Were the table but covered our task would be sweet!
Our cooks are sad pygmies; they cannot be less:
They needs must look small when they’ve nothing to dress.
Can they carve from a fog, make of darkness a stew,
Or turn a stag’s ghost to a venison ragoüt?