 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
A WEDDING UNDER THE DIRECTORY.
In the French Republic, second year,
About the first of May,
A wedding party went on their way
Under the newly budded trees
In the Garden of the Tuileries,
That was crowded far and near;
And old, and young,
They chatted and sung,
For the wind was mild, and the weather was clear.
This newly wedded groom and bride
Strolled slowly homeward side by side,
He holding her reticule and fan,
And counting himself a happy man,
She thinking herself a happy wife,
And Buddal the brightest season of life.
O, she was fair in her long white dress
Of silk, or satin—who cares which now?
With her yellow curls low down on her brow,
Under her flowing bridal veil,
That made her look just a trifle pale,
Pure as the rose-bud in her breast,
(Ah, little bird, to have such a nest
A picture of perfect loveliness!
About the first of May,
A wedding party went on their way
Under the newly budded trees
In the Garden of the Tuileries,
That was crowded far and near;
And old, and young,
They chatted and sung,
For the wind was mild, and the weather was clear.
This newly wedded groom and bride
Strolled slowly homeward side by side,
He holding her reticule and fan,
And counting himself a happy man,
She thinking herself a happy wife,
And Buddal the brightest season of life.
O, she was fair in her long white dress
Of silk, or satin—who cares which now?
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Under her flowing bridal veil,
That made her look just a trifle pale,
Pure as the rose-bud in her breast,
(Ah, little bird, to have such a nest
A picture of perfect loveliness!
What do you think of your Aucassin,
O beautiful Nicolette?
He is brave without, and good within,
And he will never forget.
Life is rosy with him to-day,
As he struts along with your big bouquet,
And his jaunty hat—no cockade there!
(Does he think of the 13th Vendimaire?
No, he lives, so he was away,
Or was not in the Rue St. Honoré!)
Do you guess what songs are singing within
The half-turned head of your Aucassin?
Hearken, and you will hear
In your inner ear:
“Ma mie,
Ma douce amie,
Réponds à mes amours.
Fidèle
A cette belle
Je t'aimerai toujours.”
O beautiful Nicolette?
He is brave without, and good within,
And he will never forget.
Life is rosy with him to-day,
As he struts along with your big bouquet,
And his jaunty hat—no cockade there!
(Does he think of the 13th Vendimaire?
No, he lives, so he was away,
Or was not in the Rue St. Honoré!)
Do you guess what songs are singing within
The half-turned head of your Aucassin?
Hearken, and you will hear
In your inner ear:
“Ma mie,
Ma douce amie,
Réponds à mes amours.
Fidèle
A cette belle
Je t'aimerai toujours.”
What do you think of your Nicolette,
O Citoyen Aucassin?
Without a coy rose-bud coquette,
She's as chaste as a lily within!
The sprays above her are not so sweet,
Nor the day so debonair,
As she with her delicate, noiseless feet
Tripping from stair to stair.
You lucky fellow, you have on your arm
A loving, confiding, perfect charm!
“Tra la! tra la!” her light heart goes
As she trips and skips on the tip of her toes.
Her slippers were made by Bourdon: her hair
Was dressed by Léonard—Peste! Why do you smile?
I know his style,
And, as Buffon says, the style is the man,
The Citoyenne's is à la Persane.
Do you know what pretty chansonette
Runs through the head of your Nicolette?
“Je le veux; car c'est la raison
Que je sois maître en ma maison.”
(That elderly person looking this way
Wrote that vieille ronde gauloise—Beaumarchais.
He is lifting his hat. “Merci, M'sieu.”)
Such is the song she is singing to you:
But deeper down, where her feelings are,
She is crooning the dirge of the queen of Navarre,
(See that she does it never!)
“Je n'ay plus ny père, ny mère,
Ny sœur, ny frère.”
Here she sighs,
And looks in your eyes,
And hopes you will love her forever!
O Citoyen Aucassin?
Without a coy rose-bud coquette,
She's as chaste as a lily within!
The sprays above her are not so sweet,
Nor the day so debonair,
As she with her delicate, noiseless feet
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You lucky fellow, you have on your arm
A loving, confiding, perfect charm!
“Tra la! tra la!” her light heart goes
As she trips and skips on the tip of her toes.
Her slippers were made by Bourdon: her hair
Was dressed by Léonard—Peste! Why do you smile?
I know his style,
And, as Buffon says, the style is the man,
The Citoyenne's is à la Persane.
Do you know what pretty chansonette
Runs through the head of your Nicolette?
“Je le veux; car c'est la raison
Que je sois maître en ma maison.”
(That elderly person looking this way
Wrote that vieille ronde gauloise—Beaumarchais.
He is lifting his hat. “Merci, M'sieu.”)
Such is the song she is singing to you:
But deeper down, where her feelings are,
She is crooning the dirge of the queen of Navarre,
(See that she does it never!)
“Je n'ay plus ny père, ny mère,
Ny sœur, ny frère.”
Here she sighs,
And looks in your eyes,
And hopes you will love her forever!
What do you think of the happy pair,
O saucy, pert Dorine?
You only think that you are fair,
And you know you love to be seen.
You have no heart, but plenty of art,
And you flatter yourself that you are smart—
Don't be so quick,
It is my vile English—“Tu est chic!”
You are wearing a love of a hat, Dorine,
And what dainty satin shoes!
Whose miniature is that, Dorine,
On your little white neck?
Do you run at his beck?
But remember you still have something to lose.
She heeds me not—she is lost, not won,
And is singing a song of Villon:
“Dictes moy, ou ne en quel pays
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
Archipiada, ne Thais
Qui fut sa cousine germaine?”
(He sings.)
O saucy, pert Dorine?
You only think that you are fair,
And you know you love to be seen.
You have no heart, but plenty of art,
And you flatter yourself that you are smart—
Don't be so quick,
It is my vile English—“Tu est chic!”
427
And what dainty satin shoes!
Whose miniature is that, Dorine,
On your little white neck?
Do you run at his beck?
But remember you still have something to lose.
She heeds me not—she is lost, not won,
And is singing a song of Villon:
“Dictes moy, ou ne en quel pays
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
Archipiada, ne Thais
Qui fut sa cousine germaine?”
“Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra,”
And Nicolette hummed the refrain,
And Dorine went “Tra-la-la.”
(His friend warns him.)
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra,”
And Nicolette hummed the refrain,
And Dorine went “Tra-la-la.”
“What are you doing, and why so gay,
Georges Cadoudal? A word in your ear.
Barras and Carnot have seen you here,
Mon cher camarade at Savenay!
O General Cadoudal, fly with your wife,
Madame, beseech him to save his life!
I warn you, ami, have nothing to do
With Pichegru;
For he is as rash as you are brave,
Or you will fall in the Place de Grève,
Riddled with bullets!” “We'll change the strain,”
Said Cadoudal, “with a new refrain:
‘Général Cadoudal est mort,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Général Cadoudal est mort,
Est mort et enterré.’”
“Fi donc,” Dorine said. “Mais il est forth.”
And he was, on that terrible day.
Georges Cadoudal? A word in your ear.
Barras and Carnot have seen you here,
Mon cher camarade at Savenay!
O General Cadoudal, fly with your wife,
Madame, beseech him to save his life!
I warn you, ami, have nothing to do
With Pichegru;
For he is as rash as you are brave,
Or you will fall in the Place de Grève,
Riddled with bullets!” “We'll change the strain,”
Said Cadoudal, “with a new refrain:
428
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Général Cadoudal est mort,
Est mort et enterré.’”
“Fi donc,” Dorine said. “Mais il est forth.”
And he was, on that terrible day.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |