The engine roars upon its race, The shuttle whirrs along the woof, The fountain in the basin plays, A wondrous song! Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, March, Queen and Royal pageant, march By splendid aisle and springing arch Of this fair Hall: And see above the fabric vast, God's boundless heaven is bending blue, May, 1851. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, The which in youth I oft attended, This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is- Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. I wonder if the house still there is? I recollect his droll grimace: 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 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 64 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, This well-known chair since last I took. 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 There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage; Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! A fair young form was nestled near me, 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 ! THE MAHOGANY TREE. CHRISTMAS is here: Icy and chill, Little care we : Little we fear Weather without, The Mahogany Tree. Once on the boughs Perched round the stem Of the jolly old tree. Here let us sport, Evenings we knew, Pleasant to see. Kind hearts and true, Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate : Drain we the cup.- Sorrows, begone! |