I am even fain to think She is verging on the can-can, For her shameless wagging hints Of the gay _Grande Chaumière_ Even he, the showman brave, Holding her with loosened chain, Marks the immorality Of her most immodest dance. So at times he lays the lash Straight across her inky back, Till the mountains wake and shout Echoes to her frenzied howls. On the showman's pointed hat Six Madonnas made of lead Shield him from the foeman's balls Or invasions of the louse. And a gaudy altar-cloth From his shoulders hanging down, Makes a proper sort of cloak, Hiding pistol and a knife. In his youth a monk was he, Then became a robber chief; Later, in Don Carlos' ranks, He combined the other two. When Don Carlos, forced to flee, Bade his Table Round farewell, All his Paladins resolved Straight to learn an honest trade. Herr Schnapphahnski turned a scribe, And our staunch Crusader here Just a showman, with his bears Trudging up and down the land. And in every market-place For the people's pence they dance-- In the square at Cauterets Atta Troll is dancing now! Atta Troll, the Forest King, He who ruled on mountain-heights, Now to please the village mob, Dances in his doleful chains. Worse and worse! for money vile He must dance who, clad in might, Once in majesty of terror Held the world a sorry thing! When the memories of his youth And his lost dominions green, Smite the soul of Atta Troll, Mournful sobs escape his breast. And he scowls as scowled the black Monarch famed of Freiligrath; In his rage he dances badly, As the darkey badly drummed. Yet compassion none he wins,-- Only laughter! Juliet From her balcony is laughing At his wild, despairing bounds. Juliet, you see, is French, And was born without a soul-- Lives for mere externals--but Her externals are so fair! Like a net of tender gleams Are the glances of her eye, And our hearts like little fishes, Fall and struggle in that net. [Illustration] [Illustration] CANTO II When the dusky Moorish Prince Sung by poet Freiligrath Beat upon his mighty drum Till the drumskin crashed and broke-- Thrilling must that crash have been-- Likewise hard upon the ear-- But just fancy when a bear Breaks away from captive chains! Swift the laughter and the pipes Cease. What yells of fear arise! From the square the people rush And the gentle dames grow pale. Yea, from all his slavish bonds Atta Troll has torn him free. Suddenly! With mighty leaps Through the narrow streets he runs.