A week ago I saw a crowd
Of red-caps; and a Tricoteuse
Call'd as I hurried swiftly past--
"They've taken little Wooden Shoes!"
Well, so they had. Come, laugh, I say;
Your laugh with mine should come in pat!
For she, the little sad-fac'd child,
Was an accurs'd aristocrat!
Vogue la galere! the Republic's said
Saints, angels, nobles, all are dead.
"The old man, too!" shriek'd out the crowd;
She turn'd her small white face about;
And ye'd have laugh'd to see the air
With which she fac'd that rabble rout!
I laugh'd, I know--some laughter breeds
A merry moisture in the eye:
My cheeks were wet, to see her hand
Try to push those brawny patriots by.
Vogue la galere! we'll laugh nor weep
When Death, not God, calls _us_ to sleep.
"Not Jean!" she said, "'tis only I
That noble am--take only me;
I only am his foster-child,--
He nurs'd me on his knee!
See! he is guiltless of the crime
Of noble birth--and lov'd me not,
Because I claim an old descent,
But that he nurs'd me in his cot!"
Vogue la galere! 'tis well no God
Exists, to look upon this sod!
"Believe her not!" he shriek'd; "O, no!
I am the father of her life!"
"Poor Jean!" she said; "believe him not,
His mind with dreams is rife.
Farewell, dear Jean!" she said. I laugh'd,
Her air was so sedately grand.
"Thou'st been a faithful servant, so
Thou well may'st kiss my hand.
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