A Pancake-Maker, - in Paris

Under an archway he stands,—every day he is there, The little old pancake-man, with his tins and his cooking-ware; Tossing his batter aloft, as he brays out many a yarn Concerning the making of crêpes, which he designates à la MacMahon.

"First, there are eggs to be sifted,—the country's best silver and gold; Next for some flummery mixture, or else the matter won't hold; Stir it about with sugar, then pop it into the pan, And out comes a crêpe for the marshal—or—any popular man."

The people around him laugh,—"There's wisdom in that!" they cry; For had not old Antoine seen the violets bloom and die? The lilies, too,—yet there, still there, with his "voix d'âne," He praises now, and tosses his crêpes,—à la MacMahon!