As she took your tip—“One does not forget
The good days, Monsieur.” Said with a grace,
But sacrébleu! what a ghost of a face!
And no fun too for the demoiselles
Of the pensionnat, who were hurried past,
With their “Oh, que c’est beau—Ah, qu’elle est belle!”
A lap-dog’s life from first to last!
The good nights are not made for sleep, nor the good days for dreaming in,
And at the end in the big Circus tent we sat and shook and stewed like sin!
Some children there had got—but where?