Preoccupied by work ... or idle,
All race about on some affair.
That child of ventures and finances,
The merchant to the port advances,
To learn the news: has heaven brought
The long-awaited sail he sought?
Which just-delivered importations
Have gone in quarantine today?
Which wines have come without delay?
And how's the plague? What conflagrations,
What wars and famines have occurred?
He has to have the latest word.
* * *
But we, we band of callow joysters,
Unlike those merchants filled with cares,
Have been expecting only oysters . . .
From Istanbul, the seaside's wares.
What news of oysters? Here? What rapture!
And off runs glutton youth to capture
And slurp from salty shells those bites
Of plump and living anchorites,
With just a dash of lemon flavour.
What din, debates! The good Automne*
From cellar store has just now come
With sparkling wine for us to savour.
The time goes by and, as it goes,
The bill to awesome stature grows.
* * *
But now blue evening starts to darken,
And to the opera we must get,
The great Rossini there to harken,
Proud Orpheus and Europe's pet.
Before no critic will he grovel,
He's ever constant, ever novel;
He pours out tunes that effervesce,
That in their burning flow caress
The soul with endless youthful kisses,
With sweetly flaming love's refrain,
A golden, sparkling fine champagne,
A stream that bubbles, foams, and hisses.
But can one justly, friends of mine,
Compare this do-re-mi with wine?
* * *
And what of other fascinations?
And what of keen lorgnettes, I say ... ?
And in the wings . . . the assignations?
The prima donna? The ballet?
The
The merchant's youthful wife sits dreaming,
All vain and languorous with pride,
