The Home Book of Verse, vol 4 | Page 8

true adorers; And there were lyres and lutes in tune, And no such thing as snorers; And lovers swam, and held at naught Streams broader than the Mersey; And fifty thousand would have fought For a smile from Lady Jersey.
Then people wore an iron vest, And bad no use for tailors; And the artizans who lived the best Were armorers and nailers; And steel was measured by the ell And trousers lined with leather; And jesters wore a cap and bell, And knights a cap and feather.
Then single folks might live at ease, And married ones might sever; Uncommon doctors had their fees, But Doctor's Commons never; O! had we in those times been bred, Fair cousin, for thy glances, Instead of breaking Priscian's head, I had been breaking lances!
Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is - The New Street of the Little Fields; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case - The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is - A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is as before; The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder; - "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre's run his race!" "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" "Tell me a good one." "That I can, Sir; The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
My old accustomed corner here is, - The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanished many a busy year is, This well-known chair since last I took, When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty - I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; On James's head the grass is growing: Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place - but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. - There's no one now to share my cup. . . .
I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes; Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. - Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]
TO MY GRANDMOTHER Suggested By A Picture By Mr. Romney
Under the elm a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry-make
This Relative of mine Was she seventy-and-nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen, As a Bride.
Beneath a summer tree Her maiden reverie Has a charm; Her ringlets are in taste; What an arm! and what a waist For an arm!
With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace farthingale, and gay Falbala, - If Romney's touch be