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There's not a man among my prisoners, thank the Lord, who's not a Parleyvoo.'

Now, Mister Parleyvoo—can't you do something to amuse the company?

“Not me, faith,” sez I. “If it’s duellin’ ye want you’ll have to go to another shop, Monsieur Parleyvoo, for it ain’t in my line.

The sleek, pomaded Parleyvoo   Will air his sweetest airs And quote the highest rates when you   "Comme bien" for his wares; And, though the German stolid be,   His so-called heart of steel Becomes as soft as wax when he   Detects the words "Wie viel."

I can't parleyvoo with him, but he's an honest rogue for a Frenchman, and 'twas he brought off my young Lord.