Some like to make love, and some like to make war, Some of beauty obey “la commande;” But what is a glance from an eye, “bleu,” or “noir,” Except it be, “la Contrabande.” When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can't spare, And lets him lie down “sur la lande;” Call it, as you like--but the truth is, I swear, “C'est bien pire que--la Contrabande.” Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we're told, They sink like a “navire qui fende;” And what's true of a kiss, is the same, too, of gold, They're both, in their way, “Contrabande!” When kings take your money, they won't even say, “Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende;” While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay, “C'est partout et toujours, Contrabande.” The good things of life are not equal, I'm sure, Then, how pleasant to make the “amende;” To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor, “Voila! que j'appelle, Contrabande.” Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange, That even “La France et L'Irlande,” If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange, There are folks who call that, “Contrabande.” “_Vive la Contrabande, mes amis_,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able. “'Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it all--and the tune's mighty like the 'Cruiskeen Lawn.'” “Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “will the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You'd rather practise your own 'Contrabande' among the bright eyes and dark locks of the capital. Well, there are worse 'metiers.' I have had a turn at it these fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew weary of it. But, now for a little business talk--where is the _Padre?_ where's Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?” Mary whispered the answer in the captain's ear. “_Ah! parbleu_,” exclaimed he aloud--“is it so? Practising a little 'Contrebande' of his own--trying to see a poor fellow safe over the frontier, into the next world.” “Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That's not the way to talk of the holy offices.” “I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières, he's the boy could despatch them without trouble.” Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault's new turn of the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on--