Monsieur the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face,--
With his coat worn 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'épice_.
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 Lou;
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.