Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/113

 "Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros—
 * Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!

Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots!
 * Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie
 * Give no retaliating whack—

Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi—
 * Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad
 * Cut lead and mutton more and more;

And every day, poor, half mad,
 * Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

had a mother, poor and old,
 * A simple, harmless, village dame,

Who crowed and clapped as people told
 * Of rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot
 * To see my sabre-play;"

And so she left her leafy cot,
 * And walked to Dover in a day.

had a doting mother, who
 * Had heard of his defiant rage:

His ma was nearly ninety-two.
 * And rather dressy for her age.