Little sweet wine of Jurancon,
       &nbsp You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song,
       &nbsp Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.

Twenty years after, passing that way,
       &nbsp Under the trellis I found again
Mine host, still sitting there au frais,
       &nbsp And singing still the same refrain.

The Jurancon, so fresh and bold,
       &nbsp Treats me as one it used to know;
Souvenirs of the days of old
       &nbsp Already from the bottle flow,

With glass in hand our glances met;
       &nbsp We pledge, we drink. How sour it is
Never Argenteuil piquette
       &nbsp Was to my palate sour as this!

And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;
       &nbsp The self-same juice, the self-same cask!
It was you, O gayety of my youth,
       &nbsp That failed in the autumnal flask!