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 here'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, saffron,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:

All these you eat at TERRÉ'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-checked écaillère is

Still opening oysters at the door.

Is TERRÉ 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 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,

So honest TERRÉ'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 TERRÉ'S gone,” I say, and sink in

My old accustom'd corner-place,

“He's done with feasting and with drinking,

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.”

My old accustom'd corner here is,

The table still is in the nook;

Ah! vanish'd 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!