Monsieur the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face, —
With his coat word bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
You may see him pass by the little "Grande-Place,"
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville;"
He smiles as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.
He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool,
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the "belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.
There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'epice.
There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!"
And a pinch from the Curé's box.
There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter too;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!"
But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan: —
For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face, —
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
