BABETTE she was a fisher gal,
 With jupon striped and cap in crimps.
She passed her days inside the Halle,
Or collaring of little shrimps.
Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,
With no professional bouquet.

Jacot was, of the Customs bold,
An officer, at gay Boulogne,
He loved Babette—his love he told
And sighed, "Oh, soyez vous my own!"
But "Non!" said she, "Jacot, my pet,
Vous êtes trop scraggy pour Babette.