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.