Little sweet wine of Jurancon,
You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song,
Under the rose-tree I drauk my fill.
Twenty years after, passing that way,
Under the trellis I found again
Mine host, still sitting there au frais.
And singing still the same refrain.
The Jurancon, so fresh and bold,
Treats me as one it used to know;
Souvenirs of the days of old
Already from the bottle flow.
With glass in hand our glances met,
We pledge, we drink. How sour it is!
Never Argenteuil piquette
Was to my palate sour as this!
And yet the vintage was good in sooth,
The selfsame juice, the selfsame cask!
It was you, gayety of my youth.
That failed in the autumnal flask.