"Let every bachelor fill up his glass,
Vive la Compagnie!
And drink to the health of his favorite lass,
Vive la Compagnie!"
And just here, rising as it were to a question of privilege concerning individual rights, let me solemnly assure my reader that I do not plagiarize from "Trilby." The low-hanging fruit of Mr. Du Maurier's bountiful orchard is to be desired to make wise the daughters of Eve, but this Eve has no occasion to rob it. Au contraire! Powhatan Starke had brought this song from Paris in the forties and sung it for us twenty years before, according to Du Maurier, the "genteel Carnegie" had given it in his hiccupy voice to the Laird, Taffy, Little Billie, Dodor, Zouzou, and the rest.
Personally, I should like to help myself with both hands to the clever things the young authors are writing. But I am "proud, tho' poor!" Besides, I should be found out!" Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon verre."
I know, I have heard, but one verse of this immortal song. All the rest were freshly made, whether at dinner, evening party, or moonlight serenade, to suit the company and the occasion. The chorus, as rendered by Carnegie the genteel, was:—
"Veeverler, Veeverler, veverler vee
Veverler Companyee."
But my friend twenty years before respected it enough to be accurate:—