In a Wine Cellar

See how it flashes,     This grape-blood fine!     Our beards it splashes,     O comrade mine!     Life dust and ashes     Were, wanting wine.     Amontillado     Fires heart and eyes;     Champagne the shadow     Of care defies;     An El Dorado     In Rhine-wine lies;     Port has the mintage     Of generous deeds;     Tokay scorns stintage     And richly bleeds;     But this great vintage     The Wine-March leads.     Yet it is wanting     In poesy;     No legends haunting     Its vassals be,     No tales enchanting     Of chivalry.     Spains grape hath stories;     Its blood the bold     Conquistadores     Drank deep of old,     A wine of glories,     A wine of gold.     Who drinks not sparing,     Beholdeth he     The great Cid bearing     His banner free,     Columbus daring     The unknown Sea,     And, haply biding,     In this dream-Spain,     Don Quixote riding     Across the plain,     His squire confiding     Beside his rein.     The wine of France is     Aglow to-day     With flash of lances,     With feast and fray,     And dark-eyed glances     Of ladies gay.     See where together,     A flagon near,     Lie hat with feather,     And long rapier,     Fine courting weather,     O Cavalier!     Bright Rhenish, gleaming     Moon-white! Perchance     Thy wave clear beaming     Still guards Romance,     Not dead, but dreaming     In spell-bound trance!     Not in Rhine-water,     But Rhine-wine fair     Sir Rupert sought her     (As bards declare)     The Rhine Kings daughter     With golden hair.     Still neath its smiling     Waves amber rings,     Men sweetly wiling     From earthly things,     Her song beguiling     The Loreley sings.     Your cup, wild siren,     That Deutschland drains,     Her heart of iron     Moved by your strains,     No blood shall fire in     Australian veins;     Nor yours whose charm is     Your topaz eyne,     Nor yours whose armies     In gold caps shine,     Shall charm or harm us,     Eh, comrade mine?     No vintage alien     For thee or me!     Our fount Castalian     Of poesy     Shall wine Australian,     None other be.     Then place your hand in     This hand of mine,     And while we stand in     Her brave sunshine     Pledge deep our land in     Our lands own wine.     It has no glamour     Of old romance,     Of war and amour     In Spain or France;     Its poets stammer     As yet, perchance;     But he may wholly     Become a seer     Who quaffs it slowly;     For he shall hear,     Though faintly, lowly,     Yet sweet and clear,     The axes ringing     On mountain sides,     The wool-boats swinging     Down Darling tides,     The drovers singing     Where Clancy rides,     The miners driving,     The stockmans strife;     All sounds conniving     To tell the rife,     Rich, rude, strong-striving     Australian life.     Once more your hand in     This hand of mine!     And while we stand in     The brave sunshine,     Pledge deep our land in     Our lands own wine!