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Yet, should some neighbor feel a
pain

Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send?
What hearty prayers that I should
mend!

Inquire what regimen I kept?
What gave me ease, and how I slept?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.
My good companions, never fear;
For, though you may mistake a year,
Though your prognostics run too fast.
They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive!
How is the dean? he's just alive.
Now the departing prayer is read;
He hardly breathes. The dean is
dead.

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WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. | And Cordelier or Benedictine

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, muscles,
saffern,

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 't is;

And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouilla

baisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheeked écaillére 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 ?"

"Say, do you still cook 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.

The kind old voices and old faces

My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places,

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!

SORROWS OF WERTHER.

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,

And share the wine and Bouilla-And for all the wealth of Indies
And a moral man was Werther,

baisse.

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Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And his passion boiled and bubbled,

And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte having seen his body

Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.

LITTLE BILLEE.

THERE were three sailors of Bristol
City

Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits,

And pickled pork they loaded she.

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And, looking grave, "You must," says he,

"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our later stages,
When pains grow sharp and sickness"Young as I am, 't is monstrous

rages,

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"With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!" the hapless husband

cried;

hard!

Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know.”
What more he urged I have not
heard,

His reasons could not well be
stronger;

So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke

more

"Neighbor," he said, “farewell! no [hour; Shall Death disturb your mirthful And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have,

Before you're summoned to the grave; Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve, In hopes you'll have no more to say, But when I call again this way, Well pleased the world will leave." To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented.

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"Nay, then," the spectre stern So come along, no more we'll part. "

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Over the table, look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And eat and drank-and starvedtogether.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! The paw he holds up there's been frozen),

Plenty of catgut for my fiddle (This out-door business is bad for strings),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle.

And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir, I never drink;
Rogerand Iare exceedingly moral,-
Aren't we, Roger ?-See him wink!-
Well, something hot, then-we
won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too, -see him nod his

head?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir!) even of my But he sticks by, through thick and dog.

thin;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets,

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin.

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

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