Classic Poem

Roger Bontemps.

To show our hypochondriacs,
?In days the most forlorn,
A pattern set before their eyes,
?Roger Bontemps was born
To live obscurely, at his will,
?To keep aloof from strife—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?This is his rule of life!
To sport, when holidays occur,
?The hat his father wore;
With roses or with ivy leaves
?To trim it, as of yore:
To wear a coarse old cloak, his friend
?For twenty years—no less—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?This is his style of dress!
To own a table in his hut,
?A crazy bed beside it,
A pack of cards, a flute, a can
?For wine—if Heaven provide it;
A beauty stuck against the wall,
?A coffer—nought to hold—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?Thus are his riches told!
To teach the children of the town
?Their little games to play,
To make of smutty tales and jokes
?New versions every day;
To talk of nought but balls, and take
?From scraps of song his tone—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?Thus is his learning shown!
To smack his lips at common wine,
?The choicest not possessing;
To scorn your high-bred dames, and find
?His Marguerite a blessing;
To give to tenderness and joy
?Each moment as it flies—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?'Tis thus he shows he's wise!
To say to Heaven, “I firmly trust
?Thy goodness in my need;
Father, forgive, if mine has been
?Perchance too gay a creed:
Grant that my latest season may
?Still like the Spring be fair”—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?Such is his humble prayer!
Ye envious poor, ye rich who deem
?Wealth still your thoughts deserving;
Ye who in search of pleasant tracks
?Yet find your car is swerving;
Ye who the titles that ye boast
?May lose by some disaster—
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps;
?Go, take him for your master!