A FAVORITE COMIC RECITATION.
A Frenchman once—so runs a certain ditty—Had crossed the Straits to famous London cityTo get a living by the arts of France,And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill:His fortunes sank from low to lower still.Until at last,—pathetic to relate,—Poor monsieur landed at starvation's gate.Standing one day beside a cook-shop door,And gazing in, with aggravation sore,He mused within himself what he should doTo fill his empty maw, and pocket too.By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,And thus to execute it straight began.A piece of common brick he quickly found,And with a harder stone to powder ground;Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty pieceOf paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.From street to street he cried with lusty yell,"Here's grand and sovereignflea-poudareto sell!"And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,For soon a woman hailed him as he passed;Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,And made him five crowns richer on the spot.Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,Went into business on a larger scale;And soon, throughout all London, scattered heThe "only genuine poudare for de flea."Engaged one morning in his new vocationOf mingled boasting and dissimulation,He thought he heard himself in anger called;And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled—In not a mild or very tender mood—From the same window where before she stood."Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man!Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can.I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen knowThat decent people won't be cheated so."Then spoke monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,With humble attitude and tearful eye:"Ah, madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,I vill dis leetle tingexplainto you.My poudare gran'! magnifique! why abuse him?Aha! I show youhow to use him,First, you must wait until youcatch de flea;Den tickle he on de petite rib, you see;And when he laugh—aha! he ope his throat;Denpoke de poudare down!—Begar! he choke."
A Frenchman once—so runs a certain ditty—Had crossed the Straits to famous London cityTo get a living by the arts of France,And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill:His fortunes sank from low to lower still.Until at last,—pathetic to relate,—Poor monsieur landed at starvation's gate.Standing one day beside a cook-shop door,And gazing in, with aggravation sore,He mused within himself what he should doTo fill his empty maw, and pocket too.By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,And thus to execute it straight began.A piece of common brick he quickly found,And with a harder stone to powder ground;Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty pieceOf paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.From street to street he cried with lusty yell,"Here's grand and sovereignflea-poudareto sell!"And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,For soon a woman hailed him as he passed;Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,And made him five crowns richer on the spot.Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,Went into business on a larger scale;And soon, throughout all London, scattered heThe "only genuine poudare for de flea."Engaged one morning in his new vocationOf mingled boasting and dissimulation,He thought he heard himself in anger called;And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled—In not a mild or very tender mood—From the same window where before she stood."Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man!Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can.I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen knowThat decent people won't be cheated so."Then spoke monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,With humble attitude and tearful eye:"Ah, madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,I vill dis leetle tingexplainto you.My poudare gran'! magnifique! why abuse him?Aha! I show youhow to use him,First, you must wait until youcatch de flea;Den tickle he on de petite rib, you see;And when he laugh—aha! he ope his throat;Denpoke de poudare down!—Begar! he choke."
A Frenchman once—so runs a certain ditty—Had crossed the Straits to famous London cityTo get a living by the arts of France,And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill:His fortunes sank from low to lower still.Until at last,—pathetic to relate,—Poor monsieur landed at starvation's gate.Standing one day beside a cook-shop door,And gazing in, with aggravation sore,He mused within himself what he should doTo fill his empty maw, and pocket too.By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,And thus to execute it straight began.A piece of common brick he quickly found,And with a harder stone to powder ground;Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty pieceOf paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.From street to street he cried with lusty yell,"Here's grand and sovereignflea-poudareto sell!"And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,For soon a woman hailed him as he passed;Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,And made him five crowns richer on the spot.Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,Went into business on a larger scale;And soon, throughout all London, scattered heThe "only genuine poudare for de flea."Engaged one morning in his new vocationOf mingled boasting and dissimulation,He thought he heard himself in anger called;And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled—In not a mild or very tender mood—From the same window where before she stood."Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man!Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can.I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen knowThat decent people won't be cheated so."Then spoke monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,With humble attitude and tearful eye:"Ah, madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,I vill dis leetle tingexplainto you.My poudare gran'! magnifique! why abuse him?Aha! I show youhow to use him,First, you must wait until youcatch de flea;Den tickle he on de petite rib, you see;And when he laugh—aha! he ope his throat;Denpoke de poudare down!—Begar! he choke."