Classic Poem

Les dix mille francs.

Ten thousand francs, ten thousand francs I'm fined!
Heavens, what a rent for just nine months in jail!
I, who so long a time at home have dined,
Since bread's so dear, and means so sadly fail.
Can't you, dear President, the amount reduce?
" No! with your kin, try fasting, for your pranks!
Henri Quatre's sons you've loaded with abuse:
In the King's name pay down ten thousand francs! "

Well, then, I'll pay't: but what, alas! becomes
Of all this coin that I could spend with ease?
Does pay for Deputies lick up such sums,
Or do they go to prompt the Law's decrees!
Look, the Police, with fingers foul and long,
Hands in its budget, and for payment cries!
To public morals since my Muse does wrong,
Two thousand francs we'll reckon for the spies.

If stripped, I still may parcel out mine own;
Some hungry souls are claiming my regards —
A harp lies rusting there before the throne;
Colds have ye caught, O Coronation-bards?
Sing! and from fortune all you can, Sirs, make!
Estates, rank, titles, crosses — grab at all!
Ay, though the holy phial you should break,
Two thousand francs to flatterers' lot must fall.

Yonder, what hosts of giant forms advance!
Old, or new-made, all ribboned nobles still —
Proud to be servants, prompt to bow, or dance,
Or sign the cross, as suits their masters' will.
A famous slice they cut from every cake;
For they're high folks — nay scarcely could be higher:
Trimmed to their views, a France for us they'll make!
Three thousand francs these lackeys will require

Copes, eroziers, mitres, shining there amain —
Empurpled hats, and gold and silver ware —
Convents, hotels, crest, equipage, and train —
Sure, Saint Ignace has picked the Treasury bare!
Avenging him, his priest already dooms —
For what I've sung — my soul to endless woe:
Old Nick hath plucked my guardian Angel's plumes —
Three thousand francs must to the Clergy go.

Now for the total! 'tis well worth the pain —
Twice two is four — three, seven — and three are ten!
Yes, 'tis correct; but think how La Fontaine
Was exiled gratis — things were different then!
The haughty Louis would have quashed this fine;
Nor beggared one who rashly chanced to sing —
Please, Monsieur Loyal, a receipt to sign —
Ten thousand francs — here 'tis! God save the King!