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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 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 savoury stew ’tis; | |
| 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-cheek’d 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 accustom’d corner here is, | |
| The table still is in the nook; | 50 |
| Ah! vanish’d 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. | |
| |
| 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 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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