WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

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 there's 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, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace :
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory 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 écailière 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 hoped 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?'

--

'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
My old accustomed corner-place;
'He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.'

My old accustomed 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.

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 !

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

FROM 'PENDENNIS.'

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming:
They 've hushed the minster bell :
The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast:

She comes - she 's here she's past

May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.

FROM VANITY FAIR.'

THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming,

It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood

ringing,

Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:

And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have found their voices,

The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to

dye;

And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,

And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

THE END OF THE PLAY.

FROM 'DR. BIRCH AND HIS YOUNG FRIENDS.'

THE play is done; the curtain drops,

Slow falling to the prompter's bell:

A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.

It is an irksome word and task;

And, when he's laughed and said his say,