WHEN a bore gets hold of me,
Dull and overbearing,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as herring.
When the thrusts of pleasure glib
In my sides are sticking,
Poking fun at every rib,
I’m alive and kicking.
When a snob his £ s. d.
Jingles in his breeches,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as ditches.
When a birthday’s champagne-corks
Round my ears are clicking,
Marking time with well-oil’d works,
I’m alive and kicking.
Kings and their supremacy
Occupy the table,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as Abel.
Talk about the age of wine
(Bought by cash or ticking),
So you bring a sample fine,
I’m alive and kicking.
242
When a trip to Muscovy
Temps a conquest glutton,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as mutton.
Match me with a tippling foe,
See who first wants picking
From the dead man’s field below,
I’m alive and kicking.
When great scribes to poetry
March, by notions big led,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as pig-lead.
When you start a careless song,
Not at grammar sticking,
Good to push the wine along,
I’m alive and kicking.
When a bigot, half-hours three,
Spouts in canting gloom’s tones,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as tombstones.
When in cloisters underground,
Built of stone or bricking,
Orders of the screw you found,
I’m alive and kicking.
Bourbons back in France we see
(Sure we don’t much need ’em),
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as freedom.
243
Bess returns, and still our throats
Find us here a-slicking,
Sitting free without our coats —
I’m alive and kicking.
Forced to leave this company,
Bottle-wine and horn-ale,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as door-nail.
Pledging, though, a quick return,
Soon my anchor sticking
On the shore for which I yearn —
I’m alive and kicking.
IT was a king of Yvetot,
Whom few historians name;
A sleeper fast, a waker slow,
No dreams had he of fame.
By Betty’s hand with night-cap crown’d,
He snored in state — the whole clock round —
Profound !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho !
A kingdom match with Yvetot !
Ho ! ho !
Four goodly meals a day, within
His palace-walls of mud,
244
He stow’d beneath his royal skin;
And on an ass — his stud —
In triumph through his realm would jog,
His guard, with vigilance agog —
A dog !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho !
A kingdom match with Yvetot !
Ho ! ho !
No costly regal tastes had he,
Save thirstiness alone;
But ere a people blest can be,
We must support the throne!
So from each cask new tapp’d he got
(His own tax-gath’rer), on the spot,
A pot !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho !
A kingdom match with Yvetot !
Ho ! ho !
So well he pleased the damsels all,
The folks could understand
A hundred reasons him to call
The Father of his Land.
His troops he levied in his park
But twice a year — to hit a mark
And lark !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho !
A kingdom match with Yvetot !
Ho ! ho !
245
To stretch his rule he never sought;
No neighbors’ slumbers vexed;
To frame his laws (as good kings ought)
Took pleasure’s code for text.
He never caused his subjects dear
To shed save only on his bier —
A tear !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho !
A kingdom match with Yvetot !
Ho ! ho !
The portrait of this prince serene,
The greatest of his line,
In Yvetot may still be seen,
His fav-rite beer-shop’s sign!
On holidays the boozing crowd
Shout, pledging deep the relic proud
Aloud !
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho ! Ho !
A kingdom match with Yvetot !
Ho ! ho !
LIZ, as mistress o’er all,
E’en my wine you may reign;
But ’tis martyrdom for me
To ask it in vain.
246
And if glasses you count
At my age, fickle jade —
Pray, have I ever counted
The slips you have made?
Ah, Liz, all along
You’ve deceived me — and yet
I would fain have a bumper,
To toast my grisette!
Lindor’s impudence spoils
All the tricks you devise:
Softly breathed are his words;
Deeply drawn are his sighs.
Of his tenderest hopes
I’m instructed by him —
Lest I scold you for this,
Fill at least to the brim!
Ah, Liz, all along
You’ve deceived me — and yet
I would fain have a bumper,
To toast my grisette!
With Clitander so blest
When I caught you at last,
You were tenderly counting
The kisses that passed.
To redouble their sum
Didn’t cause you much pain —
Come, for all of those kisses
Fill, fill up again!
Ah, Liz, all along
You’ve deceived me — and yet
247
I would fain have a bumper,
To toast my grisette!
Giving jewels and lace
Mondor, free of his purse,
Pays with you in my presence,
Nor finds you averse.
Nay, I’ve seen him, grown bold,
Put his arm round your waist —
For a rascal so great
To the dregs let me taste!
Ah, Liz, all along
You’ve deceived me — and yet
I would fain have a bumper,
To toast my grisette!
Then I saw, as I entered
Your chamber one night,
Through the window a robber
On tiptoe take flight.
’Twas the rogue I had sent
From your parlor, that eve —
Come, a fresh bottle bring,
Lest too much I perceive.
Ah, Liz, all along
You’ve deceived me — and yet
I would fain have a bumper,
To toast my grisette!
All enriched with your favors
We’ve both the same friends;
248
Those of whom you are weary
My favor attends.
But, then, traitress, with them
You must let me drink deep;
Be my mistress for aye,
And our friends let us keep!
Ah, Liz, all along
You’ve deceived me — and yet
I would fain have a bumper,
To toast my grisette!
WHAT! this Monsieur de Fénélon
The girls pretend to school!
Of Mass and needlework he prates;
Mama, he’s but a fool.
Balls, concerts, and the piece just out,
Can teach us better far, no doubt:
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Let others mind their work; I’ll play,
Mama, the sweet duet,
That for my master’s voice and mine
is from Armida set.
If Rénaud felt love’s burning flame,
I feel some shootings of the same:
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
249
Let others keep accounts; I’ll dance,
Mama, an hour or two;
And from my master learn a step
Voluptuous and new.
At this long skirt my feet rebel;
To loop it up a bit were well.
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Let others o’er my sister watch;
Mama, I’d rather trace —
I’ve wonderous talent — at the Louvre
The Apollo’s matchless grace:
Throughout his figure what a charm!
’Tis naked, true — but that’s no harm!
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Mama, I must be married soon,
Even fashion says no less;
Besides, there is an urgent cause,
I must, Mama, confess.
The world my situation sees —
But there they laugh at scrapes like these.
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
IN Paris lives a little man
Who’s always dressed in gray:
His chubby cheeks like apples glow;
His pockets can’t a stiver show;
Yet, happy as the day,
“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,
“I laugh at all things — that’s my way!”
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in gray!
In running after pretty girls,
In running up a score,
Hobnobbing, singing, into debt
He runs head over heels; and yet
When duns or bailiffs bore,
“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,
“I laugh at all things — that’s my way!”
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in gray!
Let rain into his garret leak;
Let him, unconscious soul,
Sleep in it; ’mid December’s snow
Let him his freezing fingers blow,
For lack of wood or coal;
“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,
“I laugh at all things — that’s my way!”
251
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in gray!
His comely wife some mode adopts
For picking up gay dresses;
So that the gayer she appears,
The more at him the public jeers:
But while the truth he guesses,
“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,
“I laugh at all things — that’s my way!”
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in gray!
When on his tattered bed the gout
Has brought him to his level;
And when the priest, called in, begins
To talk to him of all his sins,
Of Death, and of the devil,
“Ho,” quoth the little man in gray,
“I laugh at all things — that’s my way!”
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in gray!
THOUGH “shocking bad” the hats they wear,
I like these English, I declare;
“G— d—” —they’ve such a cheerful air!
So polished are they; so inclined
In pleasures to what’s most refined.
252
We have them not — no, no, no, no —
These fisticuffs, that luster throw
On England, here are not the go.
In Paris, then, behold the boxers!
Quick, to the notary let us flock, sirs,
And have our bets recorded there!
One against one — the fight is fair:
Such odds with Englishmen are rare.
We have them not — no, no, no, no —
These fisticuffs, that luster throw
On England, here are not the go.
Mark there upon the stage what grace
In those two hearty blades we trace —
A charm that nothing can efface:
Porters one might believe such chaps;
But they’re a brace of lords, perhaps!
We have them not — no, no, no, no —
These fisticuffs, that luster throw
On England, here are not the go.
Well, ladies, how like you the sight?
You’re to decide how goes the fight.
But what! it knocks you down with fright!
Pshaw! clap your hands! One’s tapped a vein —
Oh, Heavens! these English are humane!
We have them not — no, no, no, no —
These fisticuffs, that luster throw
On England, here are not the go.
253
Britons, from you we’ll patterns draw
In all things — fashion, taste, and law —
Nay, also in the art of war:
Your studs and diplomatic fry
Have not quite drained our bravos dry.
We have them not — no, no, no, no —
These fisticuffs, that luster throw
On England, here are not the go.