Not one mass will e’er be chanted,
Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,
When the day I died returneth,—
Nothing will be sung or utter’d.
Yet upon that day, it may be,
If the weather has not chill’d her,
On a visit to Montmartre
With Pauline will go Matilda.
With a wreath of immortelles she’ll
Deck my grave in foreign fashion,
Sighing say “pauvre homme!” and sadly
Drop a tear of fond compassion.
I shall then too high be dwelling,
And, alas! no chair have ready
For my darling’s use to offer,
As she walks with foot unsteady.
Sweet, stout little one, return not
Home on foot, I must implore thee;
At the barrier gate is standing
A fiacre all ready for thee.