I found a coarse unpleasant man With speckled chin—unhealthy, wan— Of self-importance full: Existing in an atmosphere That reeked of gin and pipes and beer— Conceited, fractious, dull. The warrior whose ennobled name Is woven with his country’s fame, Triumphant over all, I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear; His province seemed to be, to leer At bonnets in Pall Mall. Would that ye always shone, who write, Bathed in your own innate limelight, And ye who battles wage, Or that in darkness I had died Before my soul had ever sighed To see you off the stage! BABETTE’S LOVE BABETTE she was a fisher gal, With jupon striped and cap in crimps. She passed her days inside the Halle, Or catching little nimble shrimps. Yet she was sweet as flowers in May, With no professional bouquet. JACOT was, of the Customs bold, An officer, at gay Boulogne, He loved BABETTE—his love he told, And sighed, “Oh, soyez vous my own!” But “Non!” said she, “JACOT, my pet, Vous êtes trop scraggy pour BABETTE. “Of one alone I nightly dream, An able mariner is he, And gaily serves the Gen’ral Steam- Boat Navigation Companee. I’ll marry him, if he but will— His name, I rather think, is BILL. “I see him when he’s not aware, Upon our hospitable coast, Reclining with an easy air Upon the _Port_ against a post, A-thinking of, I’ll dare to say, His native Chelsea far away!” “Oh, mon!” exclaimed the Customs bold, “Mes yeux!” he said (which means “my eye”) “Oh, chère!” he also cried, I’m told, “Par Jove,” he added, with a sigh. “Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove! Je n’aime pas cet enticing cove!” The _Panther’s_ captain stood hard by, He was a man of morals strict If e’er a sailor winked his eye, Straightway he had that sailor licked, Mast-headed all (such was his code) Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed. He wept to think a tar of his Should lean so gracefully on posts, He sighed and sobbed to think of this, On foreign, French, and friendly coasts. “It’s human natur’, p’raps—if so, Oh, isn’t human natur’ low!” He called his BILL, who pulled his curl, He said, “My BILL, I understand You’ve captivated some young gurl On this here French and foreign land. Her tender heart your beauties jog— They do, you know they do, you dog. “You have a graceful way, I learn, Of leaning airily on posts, By which you’ve been and caused to burn A tender flame on these here coasts. A fisher gurl, I much regret,— Her age, sixteen—her name, BABETTE. “You’ll marry her, you gentle tar— Your union I myself will bless, And when you matrimonied are, I will appoint her stewardess.” But WILLIAM hitched himself and sighed, And cleared his throat, and thus replied: