—W. B. Y.

You wore the same quite correct clothing,

You took no pleasure at all in my triumphs,

You had the same old air of condescension

Mingled with a curious fear

That I, myself, might have enjoyed them.

Te voilà, mon Bourrienne, you also shall be immortal.

And we say good-bye to you also,

For you seem never to have discovered

That your relationship is wholly parasitic;

Yet to our feasts you bring neither

Wit, nor good spirits, nor the pleasing attitudes

Of discipleship.

But you, bos amic, we keep on,

For to you we owe a real debt:

In spite of your obvious flaws,

You once discovered a moderate chop-house.