Classic Poem

Le petit homme gris.

In Paris lives a little man
Who's always dressed in grey:
His chubby cheeks like apples glow;
His pockets can't a stiver show;
Yet, happy as the day,
" Ho, " quoth the little man in grey,
" I laugh at all things — that's my way! "
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in grey!

In running after pretty girls,
In running up a score,
Hobnobbing, singing, into debt
He runs head over heels; and yet
When duns or bailiffs bore,
" Ho, " quoth the little man in grey,
" I laugh at all things — that's my way! "
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in grey!

Let rain into his garret leak;
Let him, unconscious soul,
Sleep in it; 'mid December's snow
Let him his freezing fingers blow,
For lack of wood or coal;
" Ho, " quoth the little man in grey,
" I laugh at all things — that's my way! "
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in grey!

His comely wife some mode adopts
For picking up gay dresses;
So that the gayer she appears,
The more at him the public jeers:
But whilst the truth he guesses,
" Ho, " quoth the little man in grey,
" I laugh at all things — that's my way! "
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in grey!

When on his tattered bed the gout
Has brought him to his level;
And when the priest, called in, begins
To talk to him of all his sins,
Of Death, and of the devil,
" Ho, " quoth the little man in grey,
" I laugh at all things — that's my way! "
And, sure, the gayest of the gay
Is he, the little man in grey!