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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Ballad of Buillabaisse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A street there is in Paris famous, <br>For which no rhyme our language yields, <br>Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is -- <br>The New Street of the Little Fields; <br>And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, <br>But still in comfortable case; <br>The which in youth I oft attended, <br>To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is -- <br>A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, <br>Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, <br>That Greenwich never could outdo; <br>Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern, <br>Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; <br>All these you eat at Terré's tavern, <br>In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; <br>And true philosophers, methinks, <br>Who love all sorts of natural beauties, <br>Should love good victuals and good drinks. <br>And Cordelier or Benedictine <br>Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, <br>Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, <br>Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wonder if the house still there is? <br>Yes, here the lamp is as before; <br>The smiling, red-cheek'd écaillère is <br>Still opening oysters at the door. <br>Is Terré still alive and able? <br>I recollect his droll grimace; <br>He'd come and smile before your table, <br>And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We enter; nothing's changed or older. <br>&quot;How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?&quot; <br>The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder -- <br>&quot;Monsieur is dead this many a day.&quot; <br>&quot;It is the lot of saint and sinner. <br>So honest Terré's run his race!&quot; <br>&quot;What will Monsieur require for dinner?&quot; <br>&quot;Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Oh, oui, Monsieur,&quot; 's the waiter's answer; <br>&quot;Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?&quot; <br>Tell me a good one.&quot; &quot;That I can, sir; <br>The Chambertin with yellow seal.&quot; <br>&quot;So Terré's gone,&quot; I say, and sink in <br>My old accustom'd corner-place; <br>&quot;He's done with feasting and with drinking, <br>With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.&quot; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My old accustom'd corner here is-- <br>The table still is in the nook; <br>Ah! vanished many a busy year is, <br>This well-known chair since last I took. <br>When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, <br>I'd scarce a beard upon my face, <br>And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, <br>I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where are you, old companions trusty <br>Of early days, here met to dine? <br>Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty -- <br>I'll pledge them in the good old wine. <br>The kind old voices and old faces <br>My memory can quick retrace; <br>Around the board they take their places, <br>And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; <br>There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; <br>There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; <br>There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; <br>On James's head the grass is growing: <br>Good Lord! the world has wagged apace <br>Since here we sat the Claret flowing, <br>And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! <br>I mind me of a time that's gone, <br>When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, <br>In this same place--but not alone. <br>A fair young form was nestled near me, <br>A dear, dear face looked fondly up, <br>And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. <br>-- There's no one now to share my cup. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . . . . . </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I drink it as the Fates ordain it. <br>Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes; <br>Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it <br>In memory of dear old times. <br>Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; <br>And sit you down and say your grace <br>With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. <br>Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Makepeace+Thackeray">William Makepeace Thackeray</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=538733" data-title="The Ballad of Buillabaisse de William Makepeace Thackeray" data-description="A street there is in Paris famous, 
For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is -- 
The New Street of the Little Fields; 
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, 
But still in comfortable case; 
The which in ..."></div>
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