Your little English sandals for a while will hold together,
But woe betide you when the stones have worn away the leather;
For they’ll poke your little pettitoes (and there will be a hobble!)
In such a pair of shoes as none but carpenters can cobble!
What next?—to fill your head with French to match the native girls
In scraps of Galignani they’ll screw up your little curls;
And they’ll take their nouns and verbs, and some bits of verse and prose,
And pour them in your ears that you may spout them through your nose.
You’ll have to learn a chou is quite another sort of thing
To that you put your foot in; that a belle is not to ring;
That a corne is not the nubble that brings trouble to your toes;
Nor peut-être a potato, as some Irish folks suppose.
No, no, they have no murphies there, for supper or for lunch,
But you may get in course of time a pomme de terre to munch,
With which, as you perforce must do as Calais folks are doing,
You’ll maybe have to gobble up the frog that went a wooing!
But pray at meals, remember this, the French are so polite,
No matter what you eat or drink, “whatever is, is right!”
So when you’re told at dinner-time that some delicious stew
Is cat instead of rabbit, you must answer “Tant mi—eux!”
For little folks who go abroad, wherever they may roam,
They cannot just be treated as they used to be at home;
So take a few promiscuous hints, to warn you in advance,
Of how a little English girl will perhaps be served in France!
HINTS TO PAUL PRY.
H, pleasing, teasing, Mr. Pry,
Dear Paul—but not Virginia’s Paul,
As some might haply deem, to spy
The umbrella thou art arm’d withal,
Cool hat, and ample pantaloons,
Proper for hot and tropic noons;—