  THERE was a king of Yvetot, Of whom renown hath little said, Who let all thoughts of glory go, And dawdled half his days abed; And every night, as night came round, By Jenny with a nightcap crowned, Slept very sound: Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That’s the kind of king for me. And every day it came to pass That four lusty meals made he; And step by step, upon an ass, Rode abroad, his realms to see; And wherever he did stir, What think you was his escort, sir? Why, an old cur. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That’s the kind of king for me. If e’er he went into excess, ’Twas from a somewhat lively thirst; But he who would his subjects bless, Odd’s fish! must wet his whistle first; Our king did to himself allot At least a pot. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That’s the kind of king for me. To all the ladies of the land A courteous king, and kind, was he; The reason why, you’ll understand— They named him Pater PatriÆ. Each year he called his fighting men, And marched a league from home, and then. Marched back again. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That’s the kind of king for me. Neither by force nor false pretence, He sought to make his kingdom great, And made (O princes, learn from hence) “Live and let live” his rule of state. ’Twas only when he came to die, That his people who stood by Were known to cry. Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he! That’s the kind of king for me. The portrait of this best of kings Is extant still, upon a sign That on a village tavern swings, The people in their Sunday trim, Filling their glasses to the brim, Look up to him, Singing, “Ha, ha, ha!” and “He, he, he! That’s the sort of king for me.” Pierre Jean De BÉranger. FOOTNOTE: |
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