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Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind;
Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day,
With a fa la, la la, la la.

The King, with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold,
Beeause the tides will higher rise

Than e'er they did of old :

But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall Stairs,
With a fa la, la la, la la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know,
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,

And quit their fort at Goree :

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind? With a fa la, la la, la la.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind,

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:

'Tis then no matter how things go.

Or who's our friend or who's our foe.
With a fa la, la la, la la.


pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main ;

Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.
With a fa la, la la, la la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,

Sit careless at a play :
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand or flirt your fan.
With a fa la, la la, la la.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note,

As if it sigh'd with each man's care

For being so remote:

Think then how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were play'd. With a fa la, la la, la la.

In justice you can not refuse
To think of our distress;

When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness;

All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.

With a fa la, la la, la la.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy-
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa la, la la, la, la.

This is the French song of the eighteenth century.

A very pretty little song, "The Pigeon,” represents a young female sending a message to her lover; it begins thus:

Why tarries my love,
Why tarries my love,

Why tarries my love from me?
Come hither my dove,
I'll write to my love,

And send him a letter by thee.

"God save the King," Thomson's "Rule Britannia," and Burns's ballad "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," must remain in their native language. The "Two Dogs," and the "Cottier's Saturday Night," by Burns, are particularly admired. He wrote several drinking songs; some of them describe village scenes. All these pieces, though full of humour, have not the elegance of the songs of Desaugiers.

But if Thibaut, Count of Champagne, surpassed all the English Thibauts of the thirteenth century, Beranger in the nineteenth leaves far behind him all the Berangers of Great Britain. Art detracts nothing from success with the multitude, when it is united with genuine talent. Beranger's songs, composed with as much care as Racine bestowed on his verses, and which are wrought, as it were

by a magnifying glass, have descended to the lower classes of society: the common people have learned them by heart, as scholars learn the speech of Theramenes. As La Fontaine rises to the highest style in fable, so does Beranger in song. The popularity attached to pieces written on particular occasions, to witty pasquinades, will pass away, but superior beauties will remain. You perceive in the works of Beranger, beneath a surface of gaiety, a substratum of melancholy, which belongs to whatever is sincere and permanent in the human mind. Stanzas such as these will belong to every future France, and will be repeated in every age.

Vous vieillirez, ô ma belle maitresse ;
Vous vieillirez, et je ne serai plus.
Pour moi les temps semble, dans sa vitesse,
Compter deux fois les jours que j'ai perdus.
Survivez-moi; mais que l'âge pénible
Vous trouve encore fidèle à mes leçons ;
Et bonne vieille, au coin d'un feu paisible,
De votre ami répétez les chansons.

Lorsque les
yeux chercheront sous vos rides
Les traits charmans qui m'auront inspiré,
Des doux récits les jeunes gens avides
Diront: Quel fut cet ami tant pleuré ?
De mon amour, peignez s'il est possible,
L'ardeur, l'ivresse, et même les soupçons ;
Et bonne vieille, au coin d'un feu paisible,
De votre ami répétez les chansons.


On vous dira: Savait-il être aimable?
Et sans rougir vous direz: Je l'aimais.
D'un trait méchant se montra-t-il capable?
Avec orgueil vous répondrez: Jamais.
Ah! dites bien qu'amoureux et sensible
D'un luth joyeux il attendrit les sons;
Et bonne vieille, au coin d'un feu paisible,
De votre ami répétez les chansons.

Objet chéri, quand mon renom futile
De vos vieux ans charmera les douleurs,
A mon portrait quand votre main débile
Chaque printemps suspendra quelques fleurs,
Levez les yeux vers ce monde invisible
Où pour toujours nous nous réunissons;
Et bonne vieille, au coin d'uu feu paisible,
De votre ami répétez les chansons.

On leaving Dieppe, the road leading to Paris ascends rather rapidly; on the right, at the top of the hill, is seen the wall of a cemetery along this wall there is a rope-walk. One evening last summer I was sauntering upon this road: two ropemakers going backward, abreast, and balancing themselves first on one leg, then on the other, were singing together in a low tone. I listened; they were at this stanza of the "Vieux Caporal" :

Qui là-bas sanglote et regarde ?
Eh! c'est la veuve du tambour.
En Russie, à l'arrière-garde,
J'ai porté son fils nuit et jour.
Comme le père, enfant et femme,
Sans moi restaient sous les frimas,

Elle va prier pour mon ame.

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