Classic Poem

Is the ball very stupid, ma mignonne?
Pauvre petite , you look ennuied to death —
There is Bête — n'est-ce pas? in your eye,
And a soupçon of yawn in your breath.

Of a truth it is stupid, ma mignonne ;
The giver is wrinkled and gray!
The dances are older than Rome,
And the dancers as well are passe .

The wine that they give us, ma mignonne ,
Is but vin ordinaire , thin and poor, —
It comes from a shop in Rue Jacques ,
And it cost but ten sous , I am sure.

There's a ghost stirring somewhere, ma mignonne ;
The lamps all burn dimly and low,
And the music would do for La Morgue —
Allons! . . . . not quite yet. . . . I won't go.

Come sit on this fauteuil, ma mignonne ,
And show me the make of that glove.
It is Jouvin , I think. . . . now you're wicked!
Reste tranquille un moment , that's a love.

Who called the ball stupid, ma mignonne?
'Tis the best we have had for a week;
The dances are lively enough,
And for music — j'attends , please to speak!

One glass a ta sante, ma mignonne ;
On the rim of my cup print a kiss —
Never tell me again of Bordeaux;
There's no red wine in life like to this!

Who said lamps burned dimly, ma mignonne?
Look, the salon is lighter than day —
It was queer, to find fault with the light!
Not enough! there's too much, verite .

At what time did ta maman, ma mignonne ,
Suggest that the carriage should call?
Sainte Vierge! it is striking the hour —
Do you wish to go home from the ball?