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 the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay.      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 showing,      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.