Then luncheon on coffee and bread.
Then sewing and sewing till seven;
Or else, if the order I get,
I toll and I toll till eleven–
And such is the day of Babette.
It doesn’t seem cheerful, I fancy;
The wage is unthinkably small;
And yet there is one thing I can say:
I keep a bright face through it all.
I chaff though my head may be aching;
I sing a gay song to forget;
I laugh though my heart may be breaking–
It’s all in the life of Babette.
That gown, O my lady of leisure,
You begged to be “finished in haste.”
It gives you an exquisite pleasure,
Your lovers remark on its taste.
Yet… oh, the poor little white faces,
The tense midnight toil and the fret…
I fear that the foam of its laces
Is salt with the tears of Babette.
It takes a brave heart to be cheery
With no gleam of hope in the sky;
The future’s so utterly dreary,
I’m laughing–in case I should cry.
And if, where the gay lights are glowing,
I dine with a man I have met,
And snatch a bright moment–who’s going
To blame a poor little Babette?
