M. A. Désaugiers The Eternal Yawner АH! well-a-day, in all the earth Where for amusement seek, or mirth? To cease from yawning here below? Of mortal man, what is the rôle? To plot, grow old, and then to die? No wonder in my mind begets Not this the first or second time 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, In weariness which I abhorred, 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 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, When a snob his £ s. d. 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 Be so kind as pray for me, I'm as dead as Abel. (Bought by cash or ticking), So you bring a sample fine, 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 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. |