_The Great Cossack Epic_ is the longest of the ballads. It is a legend of St. Sophia of Kioff, telling how Father Hyacinth, by the aid of St. Sophia, whose wooden statue he carried with him, escaped across the Borysthenes with all the Cossacks at his tail. It is very good fun; but not equal to many of the others. Nor is the _Carmen Lilliense_ quite to my taste. I should not have declared at once that it had come from Thackeray's hand, had I not known it. But who could doubt the _Bouillabaisse_? Who else could have written that? Who at the same moment could have been so merry and so melancholy,--could have gone so deep into the regrets of life, with words so appropriate to its jollities? I do not know how far my readers will agree with me that to read it always must be a fresh pleasure; but in order that they may agree with me, if they can, I will give it to them entire. If there be one whom it does not please, he will like nothing that Thackeray ever wrote in verse. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields; And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is,-- A sort of soup, or broth, or brew Or hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, 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. I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter,--nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder,-- "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner; So honest Terre's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"