Through this our city of delight,
This Paris of our joy and play,
This Paris perfumed, jeweled, bright,
Rouged, powdered, amorous,—ennuye:
Across our gilded Quartier,
So fair to see, so frail au fond,
Echoes—mon Dieu!—the Ragman's bray:
"Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"

Foul, hunched, a plague to dainty sight,
He limps infect by park and quai,
Voicing (for those that hear aright)
His hunger-world, the dark Marais.
Sexton of all we waste and fray,
He bags at last pour tout de bon
Our trappings rare, our braveries gay,
"Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"

Their lot is ours! A grislier wight,
The Ragman Time, takes day by day
Our beauty's bloom, our manly might,
Our joie de vivre, our gods of clay;
Till torn and worn and soiled and gray
Hot life rejects us—nom de nom!—
Rags! and our only requiem lay,
"Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"