The jeers of fair spectators, when I fell upon my nose;
I've laughed at toils and troubles, as a British Volunteer;
But the thought of that nigh's misery still makes me pale with fear.
Sweet the repose which cometh as the due reward of toil;
Sweet to the sea-worn traveller the French or British soil;
But a railway-carriage full of men, who smoke and drink and spit,
Who disgust you by their manners, and oppress you with their wit;
A carriage garlic-scented, full of uproar and of heat,
To a sleepy, jaded Briton is decidedly not sweet.
Then welcome, welcome Paris, peerless city of delights!
Welcome, Boulevards, fields Elysian, brilliant days and magic nights!
"Vive la gloire, et vive Napoléon! vive l'Empire (c'est la paix);
"Vive la France, the land of beauty! vive la Rue St. Honoré!"
Wildly shouting thus in triumph, I arrived at my Hotel--
The exterior was palatial, and the dinner pretty well:
O'er the rest, ye muses draw a veil! 'Twas the Exhibition year--
And everything was nasty, and proportionately dear,
Why should ye sing how much I paid for one poor pint of claret--
The horrors of my bedroom in a flea-frequented garret--
Its non-Sabaean odours--Liliputian devices
For washing in a tea-cup--all at "Exhibition prices?"
To the mountains, to the mountains, to their snowy peaks I fly!
For their pure, primeval freshness, for their solitude I sigh!
Past old Dijon and its Buffet, past fair Macon and its wine,
Thro' the lime-stone cliffs, of Jura, past Mont Cenis' wondrous line;
Till at 10 A.M., "Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,"
And I take outside the diligence for Chamonix my place.
Still my fond imagination views, in memory's mirror clear,
Purple rock, and snowy mountain, pine-wood black, and glassy mere;
Foaming torrents hoarsely raving; tinkling cowbells in the glade;