The Ballad of Bouillabaisse

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petit Champs its name is — The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid But still in comfortable ease; The which I oft in youth attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo: Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onion, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terre's tavern in that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed a rich a savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.