University of Virginia Library

A NEW SONG.

“Il faut de l'Argent.”

Since, to please the gay world, all our fashions must be
Adjusted and set—a la mode de Paris;
I'll sing you, my comrades, un petit chanson,
Just imported from Paris—“Il faut de l'argent.”
The truth of my ditty all stations must own,
From the churl at his plough, to the king on his throne.
Great George to his Commons is wont to repeat
The success of his envoys, his armies and fleet:
He laments that new burdens must still be laid on,
And concludes a fine speech with—“Il faut de l'argent.”
Put spur to Pegasus, and take a fair start,
To the humbler of kings, the sublime Bonaparte:
He darts through the nations, unrivets their chains,
Sets their tyrants adrift, and gives freedom the reins;
He gives them a cap, and he plants them a tree;
He romps with their wenches, and bids them be free.
Huzza! shout the dupes, we slide merrily on:
“Just so,” quoth the chief, but—“Il faut de l'argent.”
Nor can we the freaks of sly Edmund forget,
How he play'd and cajol'd with good father Fauchet;
How he rav'd, “My poor country is lost and undone!”
“Catch old birds,” quoth the Abbe—“Il faut de l'argent.”
To terrible France, who pot-valiant is grown,
Three envoys were sent, and the sequel is known:
With seals and commissions their pockets were stor'd;
But the deuce of a douceur for great Perigord.
Point d'Argent! the business lagg'd heavily on;—
A douceur is wanting—“Il faut de l'argent.”
From the clouds of high life we descend to the vale;
There the truth of my ditty is prov'd in detail:—
Quacks, scribblers, and pedlars, re-echo my song.
And sigh, in sad chorus—“Il faut de l'argent.”
When yet a green stripling, by destiny hurl'd,
From the arms of my parent, to buffet the world,
The good man at parting his counsel thus gave:
“Be honest, my child—be industrious—be brave—
“But learn that no business with men can be done,
“Till the secret is bought of—“Il faut de l'argent.”
The strength of this lesson too early I try'd;
At the feet of my mistress I languish'd and sigh'd—
I swore that her beauty was more than divine.
She smil'd at my raving—confess'd it was fine;
But whisper'd, “Fair ladies can better be won
By a douceur, well tim'd; for “Il faut de l'argent.”
To the learn'd in the laws I for counsel repair'd;
I stated by case, which, in silence, he heard;
Then my case I re-stated, in language more plain,
And still, as he doubted, I told it again:
Each fact I narrated—he seem'd to forget,
And the only response was, a “but,” or a “yet!”
Ah! then I remember'd, that nought can be done,
Till the secret is bought of—“Il faut de l'argent.”
E'en now, while I sing, the stern landlord draws nigh,
A bill in his hand, and a dun in his eye:
“Say, whence, and what art thou? vile spectre, be gone!
“Why still dost thou haunt me?—“Il faut de l'argent.”