And see my little Jessy, first of all;
       She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes: 
     Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
       Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise: 
     Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
       And when did women look the worse in none? 
     I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     One jolly evening, when my friends and I
       Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
     A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
       And distant cannon opened on our ears;
     We rise,—­we join in the triumphant strain,—­
       Napoleon conquers—­Austerlitz is won—­
     Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     Let us begone—­the place is sad and strange—­
       How far, far off, these happy times appear! 
     All that I have to live I’d gladly change
       For one such month as I have wasted here—­
     To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
       From founts of hope that never will outrun,
     And drink all life’s quintessence in an hour: 
       Give me the days when I was twenty-one.

     Version of W.M.  Thackeray.

     MY TOMB

     (MON TOMBEAU)

     What! whilst I’m well, beforehand you design,
     At vast expense, for me to build a shrine? 
     Friends, ’tis absurd! to no such outlay go;
     Leave to the great the pomp and pride of woe. 
     Take what for marble or for brass would pay—­
     For a dead beggar garb by far too gay—­
     And buy life-stirring wine on my behalf: 
     The money for my tomb right gayly let us quaff!

     A mausoleum worthy of my thanks
     At least would cost you twenty thousand francs: 
     Come, for six months, rich vale and balmy sky,
     As gay recluses, be it ours to try. 
     Concerts and balls, where Beauty’s self invites,
     Shall furnish us our castle of delights;
     I’ll run the risk of finding life too sweet: 
     The money for my tomb right gayly let us eat!

     But old I grow, and Lizzy’s youthful yet: 
     Costly attire, then, she expects to get;
     For to long fast a show of wealth resigns—­
     Bear witness Longchamps, where all Paris shines! 
     You to my fair one something surely owe;
     A Cashmere shawl she’s looking for, I know: 
     ’Twere well for life on such a faithful breast
     The money for my tomb right gayly to invest!

     No box of state, good friends, would I engage,
     For mine own use, where spectres tread the stage: 
     What poor wan man with haggard eyes is this? 
     Soon must he die—­ah, let him taste of bliss! 
     The veteran first should the raised curtain see—­
     There in the pit to keep a place for me,
     (Tired of his wallet, long he cannot live)—­
     The money for my tomb to him let’s gayly give!