Cocotte
When a girl’s sixteen, and as poor as she’s pretty,
And she hasn’t a friend and she hasn’t a home,
Heigh-ho! She’s as safe in Paris city
As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam;
And that was I; oh, it’s seven years now
(Some water’s run down the Seine since then),
And I’ve almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now,
And I’ve almost taken the measure of men.
Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only,
Artist and poet, and almost a boy.
And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely,
And him I adored with a wonderful joy.
If he’d come to me with his pockets empty,
How we’d have laughed in a garret gay!
But he was rich, and in radiant plenty
We lived in a villa at Viroflay.
Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me;
Then came the call, and he went away;
All that he had in the world he left me,
With
Then came the news and the tragic story:
My hero, my splendid lover was dead,
Sword in hand on the field of glory,
And he died with my name on his lips, they said.
So here am I in my widow’s mourning,
The weeds I’ve really no right to wear;
And women fix me with eyes of scorning,
Call me “cocotte”, but I do not care.
And men look at me with eyes that borrow
The brightness of love, but I turn away;
Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow,
In my little villa at Viroflay.
And lo! I’m living alone with Pity,
And they say that pity from love’s not far;
Let me tell you all: last week in the city
I took the metro at Saint Lazare;
And the carriage was crowded to overflowing,
And when there entered at Chateaudun
Two wounded poilus with medals
I eagerly gave my seat to one.
You should have seen them: they’d slipped death’s clutches,
But sadder a sight you will rarely find;
One had a leg off and walked on crutches,
The other, a bit of a boy, was blind.
And they both sat down, and the lad was trying
To grope his way as a blind man tries;
And half of the women around were crying,
And some of the men had tears in their eyes.
How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging
Just like a child to his crippled chum.
But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing
Came to my heart for a year so dumb,
Then I knew that at three-and-twenty
There is wonderful work to be done,
Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty,
Peace and light and love to be won.
Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given
To one who will live in the dark alway!
To love and to serve ‘twould make life Heaven
Here in my villa at Viroflay.
So I left my poilus: and now you wonder
Why to-day I am so elate. . . .
Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder
They’re bringing my blind boy in at the gate.
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