WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
We enter nothing's changed or older.
'How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?* The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder
'Monbieur is dead this many a day/ 'It is the lot of saint and sinner,
So honest Terre'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 Chambcrtm with yellow seal.' 'So Terre's gone,' I say, and sink in
My old accubtom'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, cart luoghi y
I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty, Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter 1 quick, a flagon crusty I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
�� �
