The old man sits inveiled by gloom,
His bosom heaves with dire dismay;
For in that editorial room
There booms no presidential boom,
And folks no longer come that way
To whisper, " Parlez-vous Français? "

Gone is the time he hoped to be
A diplomat in Paris gay —
When, far across the briny sea,
The festive gamins, tres jolis ,
And fair grisettes decolletees
Should murmur, " Parlez-vous Français? "

So let the poor old Joseph rest
And let him pine his life away;
Nor vex that journalistic breath
Which by a hopeless grief's distressed —
The hopeless grief he never may
Respond to " Parlez-vous Français? "