Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt If I well can describe--there are cars that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, Doll--you hardly know where. These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO. Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down with him--you smile--'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch; Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, That there came up--imagine, dear Doll, if you can-- A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft), The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Bincher! Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear--if Ma'maelle vil be so very good-- Just for von little course"--though I scarce understood What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would. Off we set--and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together-- Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara! This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about, Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre. Now, hear me--this stranger--it may be mere folly-- But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly? Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.--he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off! Pa says he's come here to look after his money (Not taking things now as he used under Boney), Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should--unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push-- Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."