Sur la Plage! and here are dresses, shining eyes, and golden tresses,

Which the cynic sometimes guesses are not quite devoid of art;

There's much polyglottic chatter 'mid the folks that group and scatter,

And men fancy that to flatter is to win a maiden's heart.

'Tis a seaside place that's Breton, with the rocks the children get on,

And the ceaseless surges fret on all the silver-shining sand;

Wave and sky could scarce be bluer, and the wily Art-reviewer

Would declare the tone was truer than a seascape from Brett's hand.

And disporting in the waters are the fairest of Eve's daughters,

Each aquatic gambol slaughters the impulsive sons of France,

While they gaze with admiration at the mermaids' emulation,

And the high feats of natation at fair Dinard on the Rance.

There are gay casino dances, where, with Atalanta glances

That ensnare a young man's fancies, come the ladies one by one;

Every look is doubly thrilling in the mazes of quadrilling,

And, like Barkis, we are willing, ere the magic waltz is done.

And at night throng Fashion's forces where the merry little horses

Run their aggravating courses throughout all the Season's height;

Is the sea a play-provoker?—for the bard is not a joker

When he vows the game of poker goeth on from morn till night.

There St. Malo walls are frowning,—'twas immortalised by Browning,

When he wrote the ballad crowning with the laurel HervÉ Riel;

With ozone each nerve that braces, pleasant strolls, and pretty faces,

Sure, of all fair seaside places, Breton Dinard bears the bell!