And men fancy that to flatter is to win a maiden's heart.
'Tis a seaside place that's Breton, with the rocks the children get on,
And the ceaseless surges fret on all the silver-shining sand;
Wave and sky could scarce be bluer, and the wily Art-reviewer
Would declare the tone was truer than a seascape from Brett's hand.
And disporting in the waters are the fairest of Eve's daughters,
Each aquatic gambol slaughters the impulsive sons of France,
While they gaze with admiration at the mermaids' emulation,
And the high feats of natation at fair Dinard on the Rance.