Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/894

 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,

But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended,

To cat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

��This Bouillabaisse a noble dish

A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch, of all sorts of fishes,

That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussclb, saffern,

Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; All these you eat at Terre's tavern,

In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury 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.

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheek'd ecaillere is

Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and ablc ?

I recollect his droll grimace, He'd come and smile before your table,

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

�� �