Grandmother often said to her,"Child,child!"with gentle frown,"A meadow's not a parlour,and the country's not a town,And thou knowest well that we have promised thee lang syne To the soldier-lad,Marcel,who is lover true of thine.
So curb thy flights,thou giddy one,The maid who covets all,in the end mayhap hath none.""Nay,nay,"replied the tricksy fay,With swift caress,and laughter gay,"There is another saw well-known,Time enough,my grannie dear,to love some later day!
'She who hath only me,hath 'none.'"
Now,such a flighty course,you may divine,Made hosts of melancholy swains,Who sighed and suffered jealous pains,Yet never sang reproachful strains,Like learned lovers when they pine,Who,as they go to die,their woes write carefully On willow or on poplar tree.
Good lack!thou could'st not shape a letter,And the silly souls,though love-sick,to death did not incline,Thinking to live and suffer on were better!
But tools were handled clumsily,And vine-sprays blew abroad at will,And trees were pruned exceeding ill,And many a furrow drawn awry.
Methinks you know her now,this fair and foolish girl;Watch while she treads one measure,then see her dip and twirl!
Young Etienne holds her hand by chance,'Tis the first rigadoon they dance;With parted lips,right thirstily Each rustic tracks them as they fly,And the damsel sly Feels every eye,And lighter moves for each adoring glance.
Holy cross!what a sight!when the madcap rears aright Her shining lizard's head!her Spanish foot falls light,Her wasp-like figure sways And swims and whirls and springs again.
The wind with corner of her 'kerchief plays.
Those lovely cheeks where on the youths now gaze,They hunger to salute with kisses twain!
And someone shall;for here the custom is,Who tires his partner out,salutes her with a kiss;The girls grow weary everywhere,Wherefore already Jean and Paul,Louis,Guillaume,and strong Pierre,Have breathless yielded up their place Without the coveted embrace.
Another takes his place,Marcel the wight,The soldier of Montluc,prodigious in his height,Arrayed in uniform,bearing his sword,A cockade in his cap,the emblem of his lord,Straight as an I,though bold yet not well-bred,His heart was soft,but thickish was his head.
He blustered much and boasted more and more,Frolicked and vapoured as he took the floor Indeed he was a very horrid bore.
Marcel,most mad for Franconnette,tortured the other girls,Made her most jealous,yet she had no chance,The swelled-out coxcomb called on her to dance.
But Franconnette was loth,and she must let him see it;He felt most madly jealous,yet was maladroit,He boasted that he was beloved;perhaps he did believe it quite--The other day,in such a place,She shrank from his embrace!
The crowd now watched the dancing pair,And marked the tricksy witching fair;They rush,they whirl!But what's amiss?
The bouncing soldier lad,I wis,Can never snatch disputed kiss!
The dancing maid at first smiles at her self-styled lover,"Makes eyes"at him,but ne'er a word does utter;She only leaped the faster!
Marcel,piqued to the quick,longed to subdue this creature,He wished to show before the crowd what love he bore her;One open kiss were sweeter far Than twenty in a corner!
But,no!his legs began to fail,his head was in a trance,He reeled,he almost fell,he could no longer dance;Now he would give cockade,sabre,and silver lace,Would it were gold indeed,for her embrace!
Yet while the pair were still afoot,the girl looked very gay--Resolved never to give way!
While headstrong Marcel,breathless,spent,and hot in face,He reeled and all but fell;then to the next gave place!
Forth darted Pascal in the soldier's stead,They make two steps,then change,and Franconnette,Weary at last,with laughing grace,Her foot stayed and upraised her face!
Tarried Pascal that kiss to set?
Not he,be sure!and all the crowd His vict'ry hailed with plaudits loud.
The clapping of their palms like battle-dores resounded,While Pascal stood among them quite confounded!
Oh,what a picture for the soldier who so loved his queen!
Him the kiss maddened!Measuring Pascal with his een,He thundered,"Peasant,you have filled my place most sly;Not so fast,churl!"--and brutally let fly With aim unerring one fierce blow,Straight in the other's eyes,doubling the insult so.
Good God![2]how stings the madd'ning pain,His dearest happiness that blow must stain,Kissing and boxing--glory,shame!
Light,darkness!Fire,ice!Life,death!Heaven,hell!
All this was to our Pascal's soul the knell Of hope!But to be thus tormented By flagrant insult,as the soldier meant it;Now without fear he must resent it!
It does not need to be a soldier nor a "Monsieur,"An outrage placidly to bear.
Now fiery Pascal let fly at his foe,Before he could turn round,a stunning blow;'Twas like a thunder peal,And made the soldier reel;Trying to draw his sabre,But Pascal,seeming bigger,Gripped Marcel by the waist,and sturdily Lifted him up,and threw his surly Foe on the ground,breathless,and stunned severely.
"Now then!"while Pascal looked on the hound thrown by him,"The peasant grants thee chance of living!""Despatch him!"cried the surging crowd.
"Thou art all cover'd o'er with blood!"
But Pascal,in his angry fit of passion,Had hurt his wrist and fist in a most serious fashion.
"No matter!All the same I pardon him!
You must have pity on the beaten hound!"
"No,finish him!Into morsels cut him!"
The surging,violent crowd now cried around.
"Back,peasants,back!Do him no harm!"
Sudden exclaimed a Monsieur,speaking with alarm;The peasants moved aside,and then gave place To Montluc,glittering with golden lace;It was the Baron of Roquefort!
The frightened girls,like hunted hares,At once dispers'd,flew here and there.
The shepherds,but a moment after,With thrilling fife and beaming laughter,The brave and good Pascal attended on his way,Unto his humble home,as 'twere his nuptial day.
