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.