[Lines written at Geneva, with the rate of exchange standing at about
twenty francs to the pound in Switzerland and about fifty francs to
the pound in France. French and Swiss franc-pieces are good currency
in both countries.]
Now here's a thing which makes me laugh
And in a bitter way:
The egg, that once was twopence-half,
Is fivepence net to-day.
It needed but this final woe
To fill the wretched cup,
That Hecuba, the hen, should go
And put _her_ prices up.
This Hecuba, her pride is such
She'll only do her job
For pay in francs; she will not touch
The honest British bob.
Thus I, who have not got the dash
To borrow, steal or beg,
Have first of all to buy the cash
Wherewith to buy the egg.
And when I go to buy some francs
To see the matter through
I find that hereabouts the banks
Have raised their prices too....
The farm is Swiss; but then, suppose
You place yourself by chance
Upon the southern edge, your nose
Is trespassing in France.
'Tis here that Hecuba, the hen,
In solitude sublime
Does business every now and then
At half-a-franc a time.
Then ought she not (of course she ought)
To pause and shift her ground,
And lay my egg where francs are bought
At fifty to the pound?