The English mouse
Manuel Rosenthal
She was a little mouse, a mouse who came from England.
Yes, madame, yes, my dear.
She boarded ship and left the port of Manchester
without so much as knowing where the boat was bound.
No, madame, no, my dear.
She had the longish teeth of English governesses,
she wore a tartan plaid like many a Scottish lassie
and wore upon her head the finest lace from Ireland.
Arriving at Calais she quickly disembarked.
Yes, madame, yes, my dear.
In no time she had found the Hotel d'Angleterre
and headed up the stair without a by-your-leave.
No, madame, no, my dear.
The attic in the eaves was just what she was after,
her favourite delights were lined up on a rafter:
Malt whisky, bacon-rind, dry gin and lots of treacle.
And every night our Miss would live it up and party.
Yes, madame, yes, my dear.
With rowdy reels and jigs from 10 pm to 6,
the burghers of Calais got not a wink of sleep.
No, madame, no, my dear.
They swapped without success the cheese in all the mousetraps,
from Brie to Camembert, from Emmental to Edam,
all in vain... till one night they turned to Wensleydale!
She was a little mouse, a mouse who came from England.
Yes, madame, yes, my dear.