THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
by: W.M. Thackeray (1811-1863)
- 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,
- 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, saffern,
- Soles, 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 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-cheekd écaillàre is
- Still opening oysters at the door.
- Is Terré still alive and able?
- I recollect his droll grimace;
- Hed come and smile before your table,
- And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
-
- We enter--nothings 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,
- So honest 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 corner-place;
- 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 year is,
- This well-known chair since last I took.
- When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
- Id 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--
- Ill 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.
-
- Theres Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
- There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
- Theres brave Augustus drives his carriage;
- Theres poor old Fred in the Gazette;
- On Jamess 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 thats gone,
- When here Id sit, as now Im 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
- --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!
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