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 here'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 hatchforth of all sorts of fishes,

That Greenwich never could outdo;

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:

All these you eat at TERRE'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 écaillère is Still opening oysters at the door.