Part 6 (1/2)

VII

But there, poor dog, my faithful friend, Pay you no heed unto my sorrow; I prithee take this paltry cake,-- Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!

VIII

Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir As this old fiddle used to do it?

Can vintage come, with this voice dumb That used to bid a welcome to it?

IX

It soothed the weary hours of toil, It brought forgetfulness to debtors; Time and again from wretched men It struck oppression's galling fetters.

X

No man could hear its voice, and hate; It stayed the teardrop at its portal; With that dear thing I was a king As never yet was monarch mortal!

XI

Now has the foe--the vandal foe-- Struck from my hands their pride and glory; There let it lie! In vengeance, I Shall wield another weapon, gory!

XII

And if, O countrymen, I fall, Beside our grave let this be spoken: ”No foe of France shall ever dance Above the heart and fiddle, broken!”

XIII

So come, poor dog, my faithful friend, I prithee do not heed my sorrow, But feast to-day while yet you may, For we are like to starve to-morrow.

THE LITTLE PEACH

A little peach in the orchard grew,-- A little peach of emerald hue; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew.

One day, pa.s.sing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue-- Them two.

Up at that peach a club they threw-- Down from the stem on which it grew Fell that peach of emerald hue.

Mon Dieu!

John took a bite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble began to brew,-- Trouble the doctor couldn't subdue.

Too true!

Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew,-- Boo hoo!