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| 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, | 5 |
| But still in comfortable case; | |
| The which in youth I oft attended, | |
| To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. | |
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| This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— | |
| A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, | 10 |
| Or hatchforth of all sorts of dishes, | |
| 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, | 15 |
| In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. | |
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| Indeed a rich and savory stew ’t is; | |
| And true philosophers, methinks, | |
| Who love all sorts of natural beauties, | |
| Should love good victuals and good drinks. | 20 |
| 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? | 25 |
| Yes, here the lamp is, as before; | |
| The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is | |
| Still opening oysters at the door. | |
| Is TERRÉ still alive and able? | |
| I recollect his droll grimace: | 30 |
| 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— | 35 |
| “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?” | 40 |
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| “Oh, oui, Monsieur,” ’s the waiter’s answer; | |
| “Quel vin Monsieur désire-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 | 45 |
| My old accustom’d 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; | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| 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; | 65 |
| 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 | 70 |
| 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, | 75 |
| 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. . . . . . . . . | 80 |
| 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 the dear old times. | |
| Welcome to wine, whate’er the seal is, | 85 |
| And sit you down and say your grace | |
| With thankful heart, whate’er the meal is. | |
| —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse! | |
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