When folks, with headstrong passion blind,
To play the fool make up their mind,
They're sure to come with phrases nice,
And modest air, for your advice.

But as a truth unfailing make it,
They ask, but never mean to take it.
'Tis not advice they want, in fact,
But confirmation in their act.

Now mark what did, in such a case,
A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free,
Than Fredegonde you scarce would see.
So smart her dress, so trim her shape,
N e'er hostess offered juice of grape,

Could for her trade wish better sign;
Her looks gave flavour to her wine,
And each guest feels it, as he sips,
Smack of the ruby of her lips.

A smile for all, a welcome glad,—
A jovial coaxing way she had;
And,—what was more her fate than blame,—
A nine months' widow was our dame.

But toil was hard, for trade was good,
And gallants sometimes will be rude.
"And what can a lone woman do?
The nights are long and eerie too.

Now, Guillot there's a likely man,
None better draws or taps a can;
He's just the man, I think, to suit,
If I could bring my courage to't."

With thoughts like these her mind is crossed:
The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost.
"But then the risk? I'll beg a slice
Of Father Raulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure,
She seeks the priest; and, to be sure,
Asks if he thinks she ought to wed:
"With such a business on my head,
I'm worried off my legs with care,
And need some help to keep things square.

I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell!
He's steady, knows his business well.
What do you think?" When thus he met her:
"Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!"

"But then the danger, my good pastor,
If of the man I make the master.
There is no trusting to these men."

"Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!"
"But help I must have; there's the curse.
I may go farther and fare worse."

"Why, take him, then!"