Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, March, Queen and Royal pageant, march By splendid aisle and springing arch Of this fair Hall: And see! above the fabric vast, God's boundless Heaven is bending blue, God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through, And shines o'er all.
A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is-- A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at TERRÉ'S tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-checked écaillère is Still opening oysters at the door. Is TERRÉ still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter--nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur TERRÉ, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder-- "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest TERRÉ'S run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" "Tell me a good one."--"That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So TERRÉ'S gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place, "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
My old accustom'd corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.