The Ballad 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-cheeked 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;
66 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
My old accustom'd corner-place;

"He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and with Bouillabaisse."

My old accustom'd corner here is,

The table still is in the nook;

Ah! vanished many a busy year is

This well-known chair since last I took.

715

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!

W. M. Thackeray.

Ould Doctor Mack

717

OULD DOCTOR MACK

YE may tramp the world over
From Delhi to Dover,

And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon,
Circumvint back

Through the whole Zodiack,

But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon. Have ye the dropsy,

The gout, the autopsy?

Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez,
No ways infarior

In skill, but suparior,

And lineal postarior to Ould Aysculapius.

Chorus

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:

Here's to his health,

Honor and wealth,

The king of his kind and the crame of all charity!

How the rich and the poor,

To consult for a cure,

Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues

Or unlacin' their lungs,

For divle one symptom the docther disparages.
Troth, an' he'll tumble,

For high or for humble,

From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;
Makin' as light

Of nursin' all night

The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

Chorus-He and his wig, etc.

And as if by a meracle,

Ailments hysterical,

Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother,

And quench the love-sickness

Wid wonderful quickness,

By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other. And the sufferin' childer

Your eyes 'twould bewilder

To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin', And aich of them fast

On some treasure at last,

Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

Chorus-He and his wig, etc.

Thin, his doctherin' done,

In a rollickin' run

Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to figure. By Jupiter Ammon,

What jack-snipe or salmon

E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!
And hark! the view-hollo!

'Tis Mack in full follow

On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'. Och, but you'd think

'Twas old Nimrod in pink,

Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and palin'.

Chorus

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,

Aigle eye, and complexion clarety:

Here's to his health,

Honor and wealth!

Hip, hip, hooray! wid all hilarity,

Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way,
All at once, widout disparity!

One more cheer

For our docther dear,

The king of his kind and the crame of all charity.

Hip, hip, hooray!

Alfred Perceval Graves.

Father O'Flynn

719

FATHER O'FLYNN

OF priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety;

Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

CHORUS

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and

Tenderest teacher, and

Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,

Dad and the divels and all at Divinity,

Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!

Come, I venture to give you my word,

Never the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from Mythology

Into Thayology,

Troth! and Conchology if he'd the call.

Chorus.

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,
All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,

All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick!

Still for all you've so gentle a soul,

Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;
Checking the crazy ones,

Coaxin' onaisy ones,

Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

Chorus.

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,

Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?