Praise the great Goth, Theodoric!

Who, a true patriot, led

His northern hordes into Italy,

Where he’d be better fed.

Sturgeon, peacock, assafœtida—

Nought came amiss to him

(Though Peter Vischer of Nuremberg

Makes him out to be slim).

Once only did his appetite

Quail at a new dish;

When they served up an aged senator

In the shape of a large fish.

The dead eyes glared reproachfully—

Fear spawned in his blood

Agueish pangs innumerable

As fishes in the flood.

Not furs of marmot and zibeline,

Nor a great fire near-by,

Could warm the wretched Theodoric

As he lay waiting to die;

Chattering about old Symmachus,

And Boëthius his friend,

Who with no consolation but philosophy

Made a far braver end.