Yes, here it is, the dear old street,
A maze of picturesque decay,
As charming now, as quaintly sweet,
As in the dull years passed away.

For progress it can break no lance,
But every stone brings back to me
The glamour of dead days in France,
And thoughts of what no more may be.

Ah! while afar beyond broad seas,
I struggle thro' the bitter years,
It slumbered on in solemn ease,
Unconscious of my smiles or tears.

But I, when worn by restless care,
Recalled its beauty like a balm,
Its memory blessed me everywhere,
And purified me with its calm.

Yet tho' my footsteps seem estranged
Upon the pebbly pavements here,
Yon pointed gables have not changed,
Yon drowsy church is just as dear.

Its silver chimes have still the sound
Low, soft and saintly, I once knew,
Echoes harmonious and profound
That charmed my earliest rendezvous.

Ah! there's the shop of Pere Balaisse,
With battered signs that swing and lean,
And there the busy market place
Where first I met my sweet Adine.

The chimneyed auberge stands there still,
(Maitre Aureol is dead they say,)
Ah! how with laughter and a will,
We used to drink his Beaujolais.

What! old Mustache! is he alive?
That grand Imperial hussar,
Who fought at Arces, one to five,
And who was but a living scar!

And there's the tall schoolmaster Jaime,
Distrait as usual, stiff and gruff,
Time may go by, he's just the same,
Smelling of ink and Spanish snuff.

And Franzois, too, the old gendarme,
He has grown gray, but lively yet,
At Gravelotte he lost an arm,
They've paid him with a red rosette.

And as I view the unchanged scene,
I seem a sad ghost of the past,
That hovers o'er a spot serene,
And from my eyes the tears fall fast.

And I, dear street, beloved so well,
Come with my sorrows and a sigh,
Once more within thy light to dwell,
And in thy gabled shade to die.