The grapevine's luscious fruit has known
The praise of bards in ardent throng;
Why has the cherry not been shown
Loud voices raised in song?

O fruit in lustrous ruby's guise,
You must, in ripest bloom unfaulted,
Have first been tried by Eden's prize,
Whom Milton once exalted.

No apples so the palate scent
Or flames of thirst allay,
And should they even claim descent
From orchards of Cathay.

Boiled juice of cherries is the giver
Of much the best of summer soups;
Endows with youthful strength the liver
And cools th' arterial loops.

Let him who has been barred from use
Of wine by snarling doctors
Dilute it with red cherry juice,
And banished are the proctors.

However sore his stricken lung,
His breast ploughed up so deep.
Still from this drink his languid tongue
May healing solace reap.

If golden wine of Rhenish flood
And silvery Champagne I shun,
Then lace them, friends, with cherry blood,
Delight to eye and tongue.

Then am I lured from Virtue, much
As Eve the Wisdom Tree embraced
(So wondrous fair to sight and touch)
And longed its fruit to taste.

I drink-and thrice my cheer I raise!
Too often did you poets, merry
Or grave exalt the rose; now praise
The blackness of the cherry!