De pretty liddle cocodettes Lofe efery dings ish new, "D'ou vient il donc ce grand M'sieu? O sacre nom de Dieu!" In fain dey kicks deir veet on high, And sky like vlyin geese, Dey can not kick de hat afay From Breitmann in Paris. O vhere vas id der Breitmann life? Oopon de Rond Point gay, Vot shdreet lie shoost pehind his house? La rue de Rabelais. Aroundt de corner Harper's shtands Vhere Yankee drinks dey mill, Vhile shdraight ahet, agross de shdreet, Der lies de Bal Mabille. Id's all along de Elysees, Id's oop de Boulevarce, He's sampled all de weinshops, Und he's vinked at efery garce. Dou schveet plack-silken Gabrielle, O let me learn from dee, If 'tis in lofe - or absinthe drunks, Dat dis wild ghost may pe? Und dou may'st kneel in Notre Dame, Und veep away dy sin, Vhile I go vight at Barriere balls, Oontil mine poots cave in; Boot if ve pray, or if ve sin- Vhile nodings ish refuse, Tis all de same in Paris here, So long ash l'on s'amuse. O life, mein dear, at pest or vorst, Ish boot a vancy ball, Its cratest shoy a vild gallop, Vhere madness goferns all. Und should dey toorn ids gas-light off, Und nefer leafe a shbark, Sdill I'd find my vay to Heafen - or- Dy lips, lofe, in de dark. O crown your het mit roses, lofe! O keep a liddel sprung! Oonendless wisdom ish but dis: To go it vhile you're yung! Und Age vas nefer coom to him, To him Spring plooms afresh, Who finds a livin' spirit in Der Teufel und der Flesh. BREITMANN IN LA SORBONNE. DER Breitmann sits in la Sorbonne, A note-pook in his hand, 'Tvas dere he vent to lectures, Und in oldt Louis le Grand. Id's more ash two und dwendy years Since here I used mein pen; Oh, where ish all de characders, Dat I hafe known since denn? Der cratest boet efer vas, Der pest I efer known, Vent lecdures here, too, shoost like me, Le Sieur Francoys Villon. He raise de teufel all arount, He hear de Sorbonne chime; Crate shpirid ender in mein heart, Und mofe mein soul to rhyme. BALADE. Dictes moy - in what shpirit land Ish Clara Lafontaine? Or Pomare, or La Frisette, Who blazed on soosh a train? Shveet Echo flings de quesdion pack, O'er lake or shdreamlet lone; All eartly peauty fades afay, Vhere ish dem lofed ones gone? Oh, vhere ish Lola Montez now, So loved in efery land? How oft I shmoked dose cigarettes She rollt mit vairy hand! Dat mighdy soul, dat shplendit brick, A saint's pecome to be, For mit soosh saints der Breitmann make His Hagiologie. Und vhere ish La Pochardinette? Ish she too mit de dead? She loafed de Latin Quarter mit A hat und fedder on her het. Lebe wohl petite Pochardinette! Qui ne safait refuser, Ni la ponche a la bleine ferre, Ni sa pouche a un paiser.