“_Que le diable l'importe_,” cried he, at last. “This confounded talk has stopped the bottle this half-hour. Come, Talbot, let's have a song, my lad; never shake your head, _mon enfant,_---- Well, then, here goes.”
Thus saying, Flahault pushed back his chair a little from the table, and in a rich deep bass voice, which rung through the high rafters of the cabin, chanted out the following rude verses, to a French vaudeville air--giving the final _e_ of the French words, at the end of each line, that peculiar accentuation of _a_--which made the word sound _contrabanda!_
Though this information as to Captain Jacques' performance seems of little moment, yet such was the fact, that any spirit the doggerel possessed could only be attributed to the manner of the singer, and the effect produced by the intonation we have mentioned.
A bumper, “mes enfans,” to swallow your care, A full bumper, we pledge, “a L'Irlande;” The land of “belles femmes”--le pays de bonne chere, “Et toujours de la Contrabande.”
Some like to make love, and some like to make war, Some of beauty obey “la commande;” But what is a glance from an eye, “bleu,” or “noir,” Except it be, “la Contrabande.”
When a prince takes the cash that a peasant can't spare, And lets him lie down “sur la lande;” Call it, as you like--but the truth is, I swear, “C'est bien pire que--la Contrabande.”
Stolen kisses are ever the sweetest, we're told, They sink like a “navire qui fende;” And what's true of a kiss, is the same, too, of gold, They're both, in their way, “Contrabande!”
When kings take your money, they won't even say, “Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende;” While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay, “C'est partout et toujours, Contrabande.”
The good things of life are not equal, I'm sure, Then, how pleasant to make the “amende;” To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor, “Voila! que j'appelle, Contrabande.”
Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange, That even “La France et L'Irlande,” If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange, There are folks who call that, “Contrabande.”
“_Vive la Contrabande, mes amis_,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able.