The Curé's Progress.

A poem by Henry Austin Dobson

Monsieur the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face,--
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,"
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.

He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool,
Where the noisy fish-wives call;
And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse,"
As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop,
And Toto, the locksmith's niece,
Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes
In his tails for a pain d'épice.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,
Who is said to be heterodox,
That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!"
And a pinch from the Curé's box.

There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou;
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!"

But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan:--

For ever through life the Curé goes
With a smile on his kind old face--
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.

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