Page:The Bab Ballads.djvu/65

 The waiter would screw up his nerve,
 * His fingers he'd snap and he'd dance—

And would smile and observe,
 * "How strange are the customs of France!"

Well, after delaying a space,
 * His tradesmen no longer would wait:

Returning to England apace,
 * He yielded himself to his fate.

espoused, with a groan,
 * 's developing charms,

And agreed to tag on to his own,
 * Her name and her newly-found arms.

The waiter he knelt at the toes
 * Of an ugly and thin coryphée,

Who danced in the hindermost rows
 * At the ThéatreThéâtre [sic] des Variétés.


 * Didn't yield to a gnawing despair,

But married a soldier, and plays
 * As a pretty and pert Vivandière.