The femme de chambre, who fills my bain;
The ouvreuse, where I see the acteur,
A cigarette to chef de train,
A franc to energetic facteur.
I give each cocher what is right;
I know, without profound researches,
What I must pay for each new sight—
Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.
Or climbing up to see a view,
From campanile, roof or steeple.
Those verbal tips I had from you
Save money tips to other people.
Save all those florins, marks or francs—
Or pfennige, sous, kreutzer, is it?—
The change they give me at the banks,
According to the towns I visit.
I seem to owe you these, and yet
Will money do? My feeling's deeper.
I'll owe you an eternal debt—
A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.
TO SENTIMENT.
(After a Long Course of Cynicism.)
"Sentiment is come again."
So says clever Mr. Zangwill.
Most things tire the human brain;
Mugwump mockery and slang will:
Pessimism's pompous pose,
Hedonism's virus septic;
Cynicism's cold cock-nose,
Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic,
All are wearying—being sham.
Twopenny Timon tires and sickens.
Bitters bore us! We'll try jam!
Back to Lytton, Hood, and Dickens?
Sorrows of sweet seventeen?
Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant?
Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen.
Let's hark back again to Sentiment!
Saccharine surfeit, after all,
Though it be a trifle sickly,
Changes our long gorge of gall.
Come back, Sentiment, and quickly!
Transcriber's Note: