human
The second in command was blear-eyed Ned: While the surgeon his limb was a-lopping, A nine-pounder came and smack went his head, Pull away, pull away, pull away! I say; Rare news for my Meg of Wapping! Every Sunday People come in crowds (After church-time, of course) In curricles, and gigs, and wagons, And some have brought cold chicken and flagons Of wine, And beer in stoppered jugs.
gpt
Dear! Dear! But I tell 'ee 'twill be a fine ship. There's none finer in any of the slips at Chatham.
human
And he swigg'd, and Nick swigg'd, And Ben swigg'd, and Dick swigg'd, And I swigg'd, and all of us swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog. It seems they sing, Even though coppering is not an easy thing. What a splendid specimen of humanity is a true British workman, Say the people of the Three Towns, As they walk about the dockyard To the sound of the evening church-bells. And so artistic, too, each one tells his neighbour. What immense taste and labour! Miss Jessie Prime, in a pink silk bonnet, Titters with delight as her eyes fall upon it, When she steps lightly down from Lawyer Green's whisky; Such amazing beauty makes one feel frisky, She explains. Mr. Nichols says he is delighted (He is the firm); His work is all requited If Miss Jessie can approve. Miss Jessie answers that the ship is
gpt
. The sides are yellow as marigold, The port-lids are red when the ports are up: Blood-red squares like an even chequer Of yellow asters and portulaca. There is a wide
human
at the waterline And above is a blue like the sky when the weather is fine. The inner bulwarks are painted red.
gpt
Why? asks Miss Jessie.
human
Mr. Nichols clears his throat, And tells her the launching day is set. He says,
gpt
Be careful, the paint is wet. But Miss Jessie has touched it, her sprigged muslin gown Has a blood-red streak from the shoulder down.
human
It looks like blood,
gpt
God Save Great George Our King ; And there is to be a dinner afterwards at the Crown, with speeches. The wind screeches, and flaps the flags till they pound like hammers. The wind hums over the ship, And slips round the dog-shores, Jostling them almost to falling. There is no time now to wait for Commissioners and marine bands. Mr. Nichols has a bottle of port in his hands. He leans over, holding his hat, and shouts to the men below:
human
Let her go! Bang! Bang! Pound! The dog-shores fall to the ground, And the ship slides down the greased planking. A splintering of glass, And port wine running all over the white and copper stem timbers.
gpt
Success to his Majesty's ship, the Bellerophon!
human
Martin--Parfumeur , and something more. A large gilded wooden something. Listen! What a ringing of hammers! Tap! Tap! Squeak! Tap! Squeak! Tap-a-tap!
gpt
Blaise.
human
Oui, M'sieu.
gpt
Don't touch the letters. My name stays.
human
Bien, M'sieu.
gpt
Just take down the eagle, and the shield with the bees.
human
As M'sieu pleases. Tap! Squeak! Tap! The man on the ladder hammers steadily for a minute or two, Then stops.
gpt
He! Patron! They are fastened well, Nom d'un Chien! What if I break them?
human
Break away, You and Paul must have them down to-day.
gpt
Bien. And the hammers start again, Drum-beating at the something of gilded wood. Sunshine in a golden flood Lighting up the yellow fronts of houses, Glittering each window to a flash. Squeak! Squeak! Tap! The hammers beat and rap. A Prussian hussar on a grey horse goes by at a dash. From other shops, the noise of striking blows: Pounds, thumps, and whacks; Wooden sounds: splinters--cracks. Paris is full of the galloping of horses and the knocking of hammers.
human
Hullo! Friend Martin, is business slack That you are in the street this morning? Don't turn your back And scuttle into your shop like a rabbit to its hole. I've just been taking a stroll. The stinking Cossacks are bivouacked all up and down the Champs Elysees. I can't get the smell of them out of my nostrils. Dirty fellows, who don't believe in frills Like washing. Ah, mon vieux, you'd have to go Out of business if you lived in Russia. So! We've given up being perfumers to the Emperor, have we? Blaise, Be careful of the hen, Maybe I can find a use for her one of these days. That eagle's rather well cut, Martin. But I'm sick of smelling Cossack, Take me inside and let me put my head into a stack Of orris-root and musk. Within the shop, the light is dimmed to a pearl-and-green dusk Out of which dreamily sparkle counters and shelves of glass, Containing phials, and bowls, and jars, and dishes; a mass Of aqueous transparence made solid by threads of gold. Gold and glass, And scents which whiff across the green twilight and pass. The perfumer sits down and shakes his head:
gpt
Always the same, Monsieur Antoine, You artists are wonderful folk indeed. But Antoine Vernet does not heed. He is reading the names on the bottles and bowls, Done in fine gilt letters with wonderful scrolls.
human
What have we here? 'Eau Imperial Odontalgique.' I must say, mon cher, your names are chic. But it won't do, positively it will not do. Elba doesn't count. Ah, here is another: 'Baume du Commandeur'. That's better. He needs something to smother Regrets. A little lubricant, too, Might be useful. I have it, 'Sage Oil', perhaps he'll be good now; with it we'll submit This fine German rouge. I fear he is pale.
gpt
Monsieur Antoine, don't rail At misfortune. He treated me well and fairly.
human
And you prefer him to Bourbons, admit it squarely.
gpt
Heaven forbid! Bang! Whack! Squeak! Squeak! Crack! CRASH!
human
Oh, Lord, Martin! That shield is hash. The whole street is covered with golden bees. They look like so many yellow peas, Lying there in the mud. I'd like to paint it. 'Plum pudding of Empire'. That's rather quaint, it Might take with the Kings. Shall I try?
gpt
Oh, Sir, You distress me, you do.
human
Poor old Martin's purr! But he hasn't a scratch in him, I know. Now let us get back to the powders and patches. Foolish man, The Kings are here now. We must hit on a plan To change all these titles as fast as we can. 'Bouquet Imperatrice'. Tut! Tut! Give me some ink-- 'Bouquet de la Reine', what do you think? Not the same receipt? Now, Martin, put away your conceit. Who will ever know? 'Extract of Nobility'--excellent, since most of them are killed.
gpt
But, Monsieur Antoine--
human
You are self-willed, Martin. You need a salve For your conscience, do you? Very well, we'll halve The compliments, also the pastes and dentifrices; Send some to the Kings, and some to the Empresses. 'Oil of Bitter Almonds'--the Empress Josephine can have that. 'Oil of Parma Violets' fits the other one pat. Rap! Rap! Bang!
gpt
What a hideous clatter! Blaise seems determined to batter That poor old turkey into bits, And pound to jelly my excellent wits. Come, come, Martin, you mustn't shirk. 'The night cometh soon'--etc. Don't jerk Me up like that. 'Essence de la Valliere'-- That has a charmingly Bourbon air. And, oh! Magnificent! Listen to this!-- 'Vinaigre des Quatre Voleurs'. Nothing amiss With that--England, Austria, Russia and Prussia! Martin, you're a wonder, Upheavals of continents can't keep you under.
human
Monsieur Antoine, I am grieved indeed At such levity. What France has gone through--
gpt
Very true, Martin, very true, But never forget that a man must feed. Pound! Pound! Thump! Pound!
human
Look here, in another minute Blaise will drop that bird on the ground. Martin shrugs his shoulders.
gpt
Ah, well, what then?-- Antoine, with a laugh:
human
I'll give you two sous for that antiquated hen.