M. A. Désaugiers

The Eternal Yawner

АH! well-a-day, in all the earth
What can one do?

Where for amusement seek, or mirth?
Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth
What can one do

To cease from yawning here below?

Of mortal man, what is the rôle?
To bustle, eat, and labor ply;

To plot, grow old, and then to die?
Not very lively this, or droll.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

No wonder in my mind begets
The sun, which poets call sublime;

Not this the first or second time
He rises, runs his race, and sets.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

To one dull course the seasons cling: For full five thousand years we view The summer following after spring, And winter autumn's close pursue.

Ah! well-a-day, etc.

My watch (a friend of little use),

Whose hands their tedious circuit ply, Tells me how slow the hours fly, Not how I may my hours amuse. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

I half the world have traveled o'er,
To see if men diversion found;
But everywhere, on every ground,
I saw what I had seen before.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

In weariness which I abhorred,
Wishing to know how sped the great,
I dined with men of high estate,
And mumured as I left their board,
Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Wishing to see if, when in love,

Life some unworn amusement has, Love I attempted, but alas! Love in all climes the same doth prove. Ah! well-a-day, etc.

Thus being, at this early age,

Of all things sick, both night and day,

In hopes to be more blithe and gay

I did in settled life engage.

Ah! well-a-day, etc.

The street where now my life I led,

By neighborhood my steps brought on
To th' Institute and Odéon,
Which every day I visited.

Ah! well-a-day, etc.

By writing this (hope quickly gone)',

To cheer my spirits I essayed;

But yawned the while this song was made, And now I sing it, still I yawn:

Ah! well-a-day, etc.

P. J. de Béranger

The Dead Alive

WHEN a bore gets hold of me,
Dull and overbearing,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I'm as dead as herring.
When the thrusts of pleasure glib
In my sides are sticking,
Poking fun at every rib,
I'm alive and kicking.

When a snob his £ s. d.
Jingles in his breeches,
Be so kind as pray for me,

I'm as dead as ditches.

When a birthday's champagne-corks Round my ears are clicking,

Marking time with well-oil'd works, I'm alive and kicking.

Kings and their supremacy
Occupy the table,

Be so kind as pray for me,

I'm as dead as Abel.
Talk about the age of wine

(Bought by cash or ticking),

So you bring a sample fine,
I'm alive and kicking.

When a trip to Muscovy

Tempts a conquest glutton, Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as mutton. Match me with a tippling foe,

See who first wants picking From the dead man's field below, I'm alive and kicking.

When great scribes to poetry
March, by notions big led,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I'm as dead as pig-lead.
When you start a careless song,
Not at grammar sticking,
Good to push the wine along,
I'm alive and kicking.

When a bigot, half-hours three,

Spouts in canting gloom's tones,

Be so kind as pray for me,

I'm as dead as tombstones. When in cloisters underground, Built of stone or bricking, Orders of the screw you found, I'm alive and kicking.

Bourbons back in France we see

(Sure we don't much need 'em),

Be so kind as pray for me,

I'm as dead as freedom.