William Makepeace Thackeray.
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 heres an inn, not rich and splendid,
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,
onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terrés tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savoury stew tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
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-cheekd écaillàre
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enternothings changed or older.
Hows Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?
The waiter stares
and shrugs his shoulder
Monsieur is dead this many a day.
It is the lot of saint and sinner,
Terrés run his race!
What will Monsieur require for dinner?
Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?
Oh, oui, Monsieur, s the waiters answer;
Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il?
Tell me a good one.That
I can, Sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal.
So Terrés gone, I say, and sink in
My old accustomd
Hes done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.
My old accustomd corner here is,
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanishd many a busy
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
Id scarce a beard upon
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
Ill pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
Theres Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
Theres laughing Tom is laughing yet;
brave Augustus drives his carriage;
Theres poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On Jamess head the grass is
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 thats gone,
When here Id sit, as
now Im sitting,
In this same placebut 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
Theres 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, whateer the seal is;
And sit you down
and say your grace
With thankful heart, whateer the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
DEAR Lucy, you know what my wish is,
I hate all your Frenchified fuss:
Your silly entrées
and made dishes
Were never intended for us.
No footman in lace and in ruffles
Need dangle behind my
And never mind seeking for truffles,
Although they be ever so rare.