A waiter, for seasons before,
Had basked in her beautiful gaze,
And burnt to dismember Milor,
He loved de la Sauce Mayonnaise.
He said to her, “Méchante Thérèse,
Avec désespoir tu m’accables.
Penses-tu, de la Sauce Mayonnaise,
Ses intentions sont honorables?
“Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu ôses—
Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère,
Je lui dirai de quoi l’on compose
Vol au vent à la Financière!”
Lord Lardy knew nothing of this—
The waiter’s devotion ignored,
But he gazed on the beautiful miss,
And never seemed weary or bored.
The waiter would screw up his nerve,
His fingers he’d snap and he’d dance—
And Lord Lardy would smile and observe,
“How strange are the customs of France!”
Well, after delaying a space,
His tradesmen no longer would wait:
Returning to England apace,
He yielded himself to his fate.
Lord Lardy espoused, with a groan,
Miss Dardy’s developing charms,
And agreed to tag on to his own,
Her name and her newly-found arms.
The waiter he knelt at the toes
Of an ugly and thin coryphée,
Who danced in the hindermost rows
At the Théatre des Variétés.
Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise
Didn’t yield to a gnawing despair
But married a soldier, and plays
As a pretty and pert Vivandière.