New Translation

Cristóbal de Castillejo (1490-1550)


There once was a man from Biscayne

Of Juan by name.

A much better drinker of wine than bread,

He was of low estate and even lower thoughts.

Short in stature with a bad complexion

But of even greater breath.

Indeed, he was a little bit too devoted to Saint Martin

And the vineyards

around the Rhine,

and the Malvasia valley.


Although delicate and weak in health

He pledged devoted obedience to all powerful Bacchus.

In whose service he was unwavering,

A childish fervor drove him onward,

increasing as he aged.

His face lit up with love’s fire

And along with that divine liquor.

His color changed to reddish, purple.


Throughout all this he had a nice gullet to drain

The liquid down his narrow pipes.

As calluses formed on his throat

he contracted an unquenchable thirst in his lungs,


Near the roof of his mouth

he had a vein like a sponge

that dried up like water in sand

the moment it was wet.

And for this reason it was unavoidable

That he keep on drinking or die.


Therefore his thirst continued to grow,

fueled by what spent it.

And so his desire grew like flames in a forge

where the more the blacksmith pours on water

The more they flare up.


This devoted thirst having become a habit

He drank a liter as if it were a drop.

And overcome with wine’s spirit

He went about hunched-over and pissed.


Indeed, his drinking was so great that he would have perished

A thousand times over if God had not granted him a liberal master.


But in the end, rent, vineyard, and root

Could not quench his bitter thirst.

And he soon hit “rock bottom” as they say.


Now unable to put an end to such high demand

He was forced to pawn all his possessions.

The money from most of which,

was buried in pitchers of wine where they remained.


It’s a shame to say and even worse to see

That on bidding farewell

To these things,

He saw them go

Never to return.


He drank away stockings and waist-coats

(even swords if the occasion allowed)

Along with Gold-laced shirts, bags, ribbons, and laces.

Hats, and daggers

And a suit whose most expensive accessory

were some nice leather boots.

He drank away his jewels

Until there were none

Consumed one by one amidst the odor of wine vats.


He drank away everything he could get his hands on,

Until nothing was left to diddle away but his soul.


Now about to die,

being longer able to drink,

Since if he couldn’t drink it was impossible to live,

And with his back to the wall

He kneeled on the ground to ask God for mercy:

“Oh all powerful Bacchus,”

he said, his eyes crying and dead with thirst,

“Look how well I have served you.

Do not forget me in such a perilous time.

I’m dying because of you,

Whose banner I followed.

Oh please grant that if I die

it not be of thirst.”


His prayer at an end and without leaving the place

He suddenly felt himself turning into something else.

Although his body was smallish before

It now became even tinnier.

His face and mouth first formed a snout,

Second, his legs morphed into little limbs.

Then his arms rose up above his body

to form two wings.

And finally his voice became a sound,

annoying to the ears.


And in the end, he was completely altered,

transformed into another being.

Yet his mind and cares remain the same.


His disposition and appetites changed his human figure

And with his desires thus unaltered,

He morphed into a mosquito.