Older he was, but looked like twenty-two, Fresh from the cases, to the country new. I, the _conducteur_ watching from my side, A roguish twinkle in his eye espied; He begged to hear about the pretty pair Whom he supposed he had been marrying there; The deed, he hoped, was comfortably done,— _Monsieur l’Evêque_ he called him in his fun. Then lifted soon his voice for all to hear; A barytone he had both strong and clear: In fragments first of music made essay, And tried his pipes and modest felt his way. _Le verre en main la mort nous trouvera_, It was, or _Ah, vous dirai-je, maman_! And then, _A toi, ma belle, à toi toujours_; Till of his organ’s quality secure, Trifling no more, but boldly, like a man, He filled his chest and gallantly began. ‘Though I have seemed, against my wiser will, Your victim, O ye tender foibles, still, Once now for all, though half my heart be yours, Adieu, sweet faults, adieu, ye gay amours! Sad if it be, yet true it is to say, I’ve fifty years, and ’tis too late a day, My limbs are shrinking and my hair turns grey; Adieu, gay loves, it is too late a day! ‘Once in your school (what good, alas! is once?) I took my lessons, and was not the dunce. Oh, what a pretty girl was then Juliette! Don’t you suppose that I remember yet, Though thirty years divide me from the day, When she and I first looked each other’s way? But now! midwinter to be matched with May! Adieu, gay loves, it is too late a day! ‘You lovely Marguerite! I shut my eyes, And do my very utmost to be wise; Yet see you still; and hear, though closed my ears, And think I’m young in spite of all my years; Shall I forget you if I go away? To leave is painful, but absurd to stay; I’ve fifty dreadful reasons to obey. Adieu, gay loves, it is too late a day!’