WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended,
To cat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
��This Bouillabaisse a noble dish
A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch, of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussclb, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; All these you eat at Terre's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savoury 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.
Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheek'd ecaillere is
Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and ablc ?
I recollect his droll grimace, He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
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