All the Gods of
love are cheering,
Guests in my heart, blowing airy
Trumpets and loudly crying: " Hail!
Hail to you, oh queen Pomare! "
Not the one of Otaheite,
Converted by missionaries-
No, she I mean is a wild one,
An untamed beauty, that is.
Twice every week she does appear,
And her subjects she entrances,
When she, in the Mabille gardens,
Both cancan and polka dances.
Quite a princess every inch,
She's majestic in every pace,
From the hip down to the calf,
Every bending is full of grace.
She dances. All the Gods of love
Are in my heart, blowing airy
Trumpets and loudly crying: " Hail!
Hail to you, oh queen Pomare! "
II
She dances. How her body sways!
She bends her limbs in graceful ways!
And they all flutter and they swing,
As if she from her skin could spring.
She dances. When she whirls with skill
Upon one foot, and then stands still
At last and both her arms extends,
It is as if my reason ends!
She dances. It is the same dance
That Herodia's daughter danced once
To Herod. And while she dances,
Her eyes cast their deadly glances.
She'll dance me frantic- she cast a spell-
What do you desire, I pray you tell?
You smile? Quick runner! Do not delay!
I want the Baptist's head right away.
III
Yesterday for her daily bread,
She was rolling deep in mud,
But today this woman with pride,
In her carriage, takes a ride.
She rests her head on a pillow
Made of silk and her eyes follow
Haughtily the rushing mass
As they, by her carriage, pass.
When I see you travelling so,
My heart fills with bitter woe!
For your carriage will one day,
To the hospital find its way,
And there the most horrible death
Soon will carry away your breath,
And, with coarse hands, the apprentice
Always so eager to practice,
Will cut, anatomically,
Your fair body for his study;
Your horses, at the knacker's hand,
At Montfaucon, will meet their end.
IV
You were not by fate befriended,
But had a better end instead-
God be praised that you have ended!
God be praised that you are dead!
In your poor and old mother's
Attic, you did die, finally;
She, with love unmatched by others,
Closed your fair eyes tenderly.
She bought you a valuable shroud,
A coffin and even a grave-
But, I admit, one can't be proud
By the funeral that they gave.
One could hear no priestly singing,
No Church-bell tolled loud for her;
Behind her were only marching,
Her poodle and her hair-dresser.
The latter sighed: " Alas! I then
Often combed Pomare's hair,
And her long black tresses when
She sat before me in a chair. "
But the dog, away he fled,
When he reached the churchyard's gate,
I hear, he's been lodged and fed,
By Madame Rose Pompon, of late.
Rose Pompon, the Provincial,
Who begrudged your title of queen,
And who, as your sworn rival,
Made you victim of her spleen.
Ah, you are a poor queen of jest,
With a mud diadem on your head,
You are now allowed to rest,
Thank goodness that you are dead!
As your mother, God the Father
Has shown mercy, and as such,
I believe He it did rather
Because you have loved so much.