Under an archway he stands,—every day he is there,
The little old pancake-man, with his tins and his cooking-ware;
Tossing his batter aloft, as he brays out many a yarn
Concerning the making of crêpes, which he designates à la MacMahon.
"First, there are eggs to be sifted,—the country's best silver and gold;
Next for some flummery mixture, or else the matter won't hold;
Stir it about with sugar, then pop it into the pan,
And out comes a crêpe for the marshal—or—any popular man."
The people around him laugh,—"There's wisdom in that!" they cry;
For had not old Antoine seen the violets bloom and die?
The lilies, too,—yet there, still there, with his "voix d'âne,"
He praises now, and tosses his crêpes,—à la MacMahon!