WHERE are Gascons, I'm told, not a few,
Whose tongues are so glib,
That they fib
Every day;
But, Parblieu,
You may always believe what I say.
I'm a noble of France by descent,
Through an old and illustrious line,
But the title unhappily went
To my uncle, the Duke of Gascoine,
And his fortune is properly mine.
To law I should go, 'twas agreed,
Attorneys and counsel employ'd;
But in seeking an old title-deed,
I found it by rats quite destroy'd.
These trifles ne'er trouble me much,
For, thank Fortune, I'm rich as a Jew; So, my friend, should your fate e'er be such To require of hundreds a few,
Don't be shy, but demand them-pray, do! "Accommodate you?" Without doubt; Though, just now, I'm unable to lend; With money I never come out,
But rely on the purse of a friend.
Could you see me at home, you would find
That my house is a model of taste;
Silk tapestries, embroider'd and lined,
Dresden vases on buhl tables placed,
And walls with gilt cornices graced.
But the crowds, whom it used to attract,
Have induced me to let it on lease;
And I lodge in a lane-'tis a fact-
For the sake of a month or two's peace.
I'd advise you, my friend, not to doubt,
For you know what a fencer I am ;
Provoke me too much, and one 'bout
Will show I'm by no means a lamb,
And that fighting with me is no sham.
Were my passion not easily ruled,
I should average a victim a-day: Yet, insulted, my anger's soon cool'd; I forgive, and walk bravely away.
You're aware, as an author I shine;
The Académie Royale Française
Acknowledged my writings were fine,
To my genius they gave every praise:
Sublime, they declared, were my lays.
"Their titles?" Alas! 'twas my fate
To be robb'd of my justly-earn'd fame,
Himself, a false friend, to elate,
Stole, and publish'd them under his name.
For composing love-songs, I am bless'd
With a skill to which few can compare,
My brain is for ever possess'd
With many a beautiful air,
Join'd to couplets exceedingly rare. You may judge for yourself when you hear Though the merit I never have soughtThat as Favart's and Panard's appear, The songs I had previously-thought.
"Can I dance?" What a question to ask!
You will find that at every ball
In the sunshine of plaudits I bask,
My minuet steps are quite gall
To the eyes of both Vestris and Paul.
"A specimen?" Dreadful mischance!
I am lame, you may easily see ;
Last night, at the countess's dance,
I tumbled and damaged my knee.
As a patriot, I glory in arms,
My country has witness'd my zeal;
And, amidst battle's fiercest alarms,
My life has been risk'd for her weal:
To the honours I've gain'd I appeal.
But my crosses and orders to wear,
My modesty never allows;
For with envy they make equals stare,
And inferiors fatigue me with bows.
I am popular, too, 'mongst the fair;
But a marriage I never have risk'd,
Though very large fortune to share,
Many excellent matches I've miss'd-
I have fifty, at least, on my list.
You ask for my proofs? They're denied,
For most of the fair ones, you see,
Broken-hearted or jealous, have died,
Overwhelm'd by their passion for me.
There are Gascons, I'm told, not a few,
Whose tongues are so glib,
That they fib
Every day;
But, Parblieu,
You may always believe what I say.
Is not my measter here among you, pray?
Nay speak-my measter wrote this fine new play—
The actor-folks are making such a clatter!
They want the pro-log-I know nought o' the matter:
He must be there among you look about-
A wezen pale-faced mon-do find him out.
Pray, measter, come, or all will fall to sheame;
Call Mister-hold-I must not tell his neame.
La! what a crowd is here! what noise and pother! Fine lads and lasses! one atop o' t'other.
|