When starting off on foreign trips,

I've felt secure if someone gave me

Invaluable hints and tips;

Time, trouble, money, these would save me.

I'm off; you've told me all you know.

Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructed

How much to spend, and where to go;

Yet free, not like some folks "conducted."

Now I shall face, serene and calm,

Those persons, often rather pressing

For little gifts, with outstretched palm.

To some of them I'll give my blessing.

To others—"service" being paid—

Buona mano, pourboire, trinkgeld;

They fancy Englishmen are made

Of money, made of (so they think) geld.

The garÇon, ready with each dish,

His brisk "VoilÀ, monsieur" replying

To anything that one may wish;

His claim admits of no denying.

The portier, who never rests,

Who speaks six languages together

To clamorous, inquiring guests,

On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather.

The femme de chambre, who fills my bain;

The ouvreuse, where I see the acteur.

A cigarette to chef de train,

A franc to energetic facteur.

I give each cocher what is right;

I know, without profound researches,

What I must pay for each new sight—

Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches.

Or climbing up to see a view,

From campanile, roof, or steeple,

Those verbal tips I had from you

Save money tips to other people.

Save all those florins, marks or francs—

Or pfennige, sous, kreutzer, is it?—

The change they give me at the banks,

According to the towns I visit.

I seem to owe you these, and yet

Will money do? My feeling's deeper.

I'll owe you an eternal debt—

A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper.