The sun bursts out in furious blaze,
I perspirate from head to heel;
I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise;
How can I, without cash, at Lille?
I pass in sunshine burning hot
By cafes where in beer they deal;
I think how pleasant were a pot,
A frothing pot of beer of Lille!
What is yon house with walls so thick,
All girt around with guard and grille?
O, gracious gods, it makes me sick,
It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!
O cursed prison strong and barred,
It does my very blood congeal!
I tremble as I pass the guard,
And quit that ugly part of Lille.
The church-door beggar whines and prays,
I turn away at his appeal:
Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways!
You're not the poorest man in Lille.
My heart is weary, my peace is gone,
How shall I e'er my woes reveal?
I have no money, I lie in pawn,
A stranger in the town of Lille.
IV.
Say, shall I to yon Flemish church,
And at a Popish altar kneel?
O do not leave me in the lurch,—
I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!
Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops,
Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal,
Look kindly down! before you stoops
The miserablest man in Lille.
And lo! as I beheld with awe
A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real)
It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!—
It did! and I had hope in Lille!