TO POMPEIUS VARUS

Pompey, what fortune gives you back

To the friends and the gods who love you?

Once more you stand in your native land,

With your native sky above you.

Ah, side by side, in years agone,

We've faced tempestuous weather,

And often quaffed

The genial draught

From the same canteen together.

When honor at Philippi fell

A prey to brutal passion,

I regret to say that my feet ran away

In swift Iambic fashion.

You were no poet; soldier born,

You stayed, nor did you wince then.

Mercury came

To my help, which same

Has frequently saved me since then.

But now you're back, let's celebrate

In the good old way and classic;

Come, let us lard our skins with nard,

And bedew our souls with Massic!

With fillets of green parsley leaves

Our foreheads shall be done up;

And with song shall we

Protract our spree

Until the morrow's sun-up.