LE ROI D’YVETOT.

Il était un roi d’Yvetot,

Peu connu dans l’histoire;
Se levant tard, se couchant t?t,
Dormant fort bien sans gloire,
Et couronné par Jeanneton
D’un simple bonnet de coton,
Dit-on.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
Quel bon petit roi c’était là!
La, la.

Il fesait ses quatre repas

Dans son palais de chaume,
Et sur un ane, pas à pas,
Parcourait son royaume.
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien,
Pour toute garde il n’avait rien
Qu’un chien.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.
La, la.

Il n’avait de go?t onéreux

Qu’une soif un peu vive;
Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux,
Il faux bien qu’un roi vive.
Lui-même à table, et sans supp?t,
Sur chaque muid levait un pot
D’imp?t.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.
La, la.

Aux filles de bonnes maisons

Comme il avait su plaire,
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons
De le nommer leur père:
D’ailleurs il ne levait de ban
Que pour tirer quatre fois l’an
Au blanc.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.
La, la.

Il n’agrandit point ses états,

Fut un voisin commode,
Et, modèle des potentats,
Prit le plaisir pour code.
Ce n’est que lorsqu’il expira,
Que le peuple qui l’enterra
Pleura.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah! &c.
La, la.

On conserve encor le portrait

De ce digne et bon prince;
C’est l’enseigne d’un cabaret
Fameux dans la province.
Les jours de fête, bien souvent,
La foule s’écrie en buvant
Devant:
Oh! oh! oh! oh! ah! ah! ah! ah!
Quel bon petit roi c’était là!
La, la.

THE KING OF YVETOT.

There was a king of Yvetot,

Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days a-bed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny, with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That’s the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pass,

That four lusty meals made he;
And, step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho! &c.

If e’er he went into excess,

’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd’s fish! — must wet his whistle first;
And so from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot,
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho! &c.

To all the ladies of the land,

A courteous king, and kind, was he;
The reason why you’ll understand,
They named him Pater Patriae.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then
Marched back again.
Sing ho, ho! &c.

Neither by force nor false pretence,

He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence) —
“Live and let live,” his rule of state.
’Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by,
Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho! &c.

The portrait of this best of kings

Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing ha, ha, ha! and he, he, he!
That’s the sort of king for me.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD.

ANOTHER VERSION.

There was a king in Brentford — of whom no legends tell, But who, without his glory — could eat and sleep right well. His Polly’s cotton nightcap — it was his crown of state, He slept of evenings early — and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace — each day he took four meals, And for a guard of honor — a dog ran at his heels, Sometimes, to view his kingdoms — rode forth this monarch good, And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits — with which this king was curst, Except (and where’s the harm on’t?)— a somewhat lively thirst; But people must pay taxes — and kings must have their sport, So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him — with manners soft and bland; With reason good, they named him — the father of his land. Each year his mighty armies — marched forth in gallant show; Their enemies were targets — their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor — no useless conquest made, But by the laws of pleasure — his peaceful realm he swayed. And in the years he reigned — through all this country wide, There was no cause for weeping — save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford — do still their king deplore, His portrait yet is swinging — beside an alehouse door. And topers, tender-hearted — regard his honest phiz, And envy times departed — that knew a reign like his.

LE GRENIER.

Je viens revoir l’asile où ma jeunesse De la misère a subi les le?ons. J’avais vingt ans, une folle ma?tresse, De francs amis et l’amour des chansons Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages, Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, Leste et joyeux je montais six étages. Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!

C’est un grenier, point ne veux qu’on l’ignore. Là fut mon lit, bien chétif et bien dur; Là fut ma table; et je retrouve encore Trois pieds d’un vers charbonnés sur le mur. Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age, Que d’un coup d’aile a fustigés le temps, Vingt fois pour vous j’ai mis ma montre en gage. Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!

Lisette ici doit surtout appara?tre, Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau; Déjà sa main à l’étroite fenêtre Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette; Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. J’ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette. Dans un grenier qu’on est bien à vingt ans!

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, Quand jusqu’ici monte un cri............