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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, | 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 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 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. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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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| “O, 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 accustomed corner-place; | |
| “He ’s done with feasting and with drinking, | |
| With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.” | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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 dear old times. | |
| Welcome the 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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