There hangs a sabre, and there a rein,
With a rusty buckle and green curb chain;
A pair of spurs on the old gray wall,
And a mouldy saddle—well, that is all.
Come out to the stable—it is not far;
The moss grown door is hanging ajar.
Look within!...
The vicomte is wearing a brow of gloom
As he mounts the stair to his favorite room.
“Breakfast for two!” the garçons say,
“Then the pretty young lady is coming to-day!”
But the patron mutters, A Dieu ne plaise!
I want no clients from Père la Chaise....
