Analysis of The Ballad of Buillabaisse
A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de petits Champs its name is --
The New Street of the Little Fields;
And there's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is --
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace;
All these you eat at Terré's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is as before;
The smiling, red-cheek'd écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terré still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hoped you like your Bouillabaisse.
We enter; nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur Terré, waiter, pray?"
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder --
"Monsieur is dead this many a day."
"It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terré's run his race!"
"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"
"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
"Quel vin Monsieur désire-t-il ?"
Tell me a good one." "That I can, sir;
The Chambertin with yellow seal."
"So Terré's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place;
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
My old accustom'd corner here is--
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanished many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, cari luoghi,
I'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty --
I'll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage;
There's laughing Tom is laughing yet;
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage;
There's poor old Fred in the Gazette;
On James's head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged apace
Since here we sat the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place--but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me.
-- There's no one now to share my cup.
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes;
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
Scheme | ABCBDEDA CFGFHEHA CAXXHEIA CJCJKAKA LMLMLELA LXLXHEIA CNCNXEOA OHOHGEGA PQPQIEIA IHIHOROR STSTCECA |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 011101010 111110101 11111111 01110101 011111010 11010001 010111010 110111 1101011 01111111 11111110 1101011 11110101 11010101 111111110 011111 0101010011 0101001 1111110010 1111011 011010 11011101 110111010 111101 110101111 11011101 01011111 110010101 11101010 1011110 110101110 011111 110101110 1011101 010101110 011111001 110111010 11011111 110110110 111111 1101101010 110111011 110111111 011101 111111010 11010101 111100110 110001 110101011 01011001 1101001011 11111111 1111111 11010111 010101110 110111 111101010 11011111 11010110 11100111 011100110 11001101 010111110 010101 111101010 11011101 110101110 11110001 110101110 11011101 11110110 010101 111101110 11110111 111111110 01111101 011111011 01111101 010101111 11111111 111101011 11101111 110101011 01001111 100110011 01110111 110110011 110101 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 3,299 |
Words | 597 |
Sentences | 46 |
Stanzas | 11 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8 |
Lines Amount | 88 |
Letters per line (avg) | 28 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 226 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 53 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:03 min read
- 116 Views
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"The Ballad of Buillabaisse" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 27 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/41037/the-ballad-of-buillabaisse>.
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