The Scarlet Pimpernel
by P.D.Q. Blakeney, not Sir Percival


There was a fop from London Towne,
The Dandy Prince was he,
The richest man in all the land,
And his name was Blakeney.

He had a beautiful lovely wife;
Marguerite was her name.
The two were social butterflies
And fashion was their fame.

But Blakeney is a sporting man;
He likes to take his chances.
So the while he's in the card room,
His wife leads all the dances.

But cards or horses aren't his sport:
He finds them much too tame.
Rescuing people from grimy hands
Is a more amusing game.

"Odd's fish!" cries he, "to grab the final
thin last hair of Fate?
Why, how entertaining it would be
To pluck't from his bald pate!"

"But no!" cries Marguerite, his wife,
"The danger's much too great!
Chauvelin will set a trap for you;
Can you not please just wait?"

"No, no, m'dear," Sir Percy says,
"Those poor I can't betray.
But only God alone knows how
With you I long to stay."

And so with this his final word,
He leaves her now a kiss
Which seems to her the very soul
Of Heaven's eternal bliss.

Fast and sure the Day Dream sails
Toward the shores of France.
It seems his blue and deep-set eyes
Take in its whole expanse.