Ii

Now, who supposed the night would play us such a prank? --That what was raw and brown, rough pole and shaven plank, Mere bit of hoarding, half by trestle propped, half tub, Would flaunt it forth as brisk as butterfly from grub? This comes of sun and air, of Autumn afternoon, And Pornic and Saint Gille, whose feast affords the boon-- This scaffold turned parterre, this flower-bed in full blow, Bateleurs, baladines! We shall not miss the show! They pace and promenade; they presently will dance: What good were else i' the drum and fife? O pleasant land of France!