doth bring
Both grapes and figs to ripening.
It was the finest fete that eyes had ever seen
Under the
shadow of the leafy parasol,
Where aye the country-folk convene.
O'erflowing were the spaces all,
From
cliff, from dale, from every home
Of Montagnac and Sainte-Colombe,
Still they do come,
Too many far
to number;
More, ever more, while flames the sunshine o'er,
There's room for all, their coming will not
cumber,
The fields shall be their chamber, and the little hillocks green
The couches of their slumber.
What pleasure! what delight! the sun now fills the air;
The sweetest thing in life
Is the music of the fife
And the dancing of the fair.
You see their baskets emptying
Of waffles all home-made.
They quaff the
nectar sparkling
Of freshest lemonade.
What crowds at Punchinello,
While the showman beats his cymbal!
Crowds everywhere!
But who is this appears below?
Ah! 'tis the beauteous village queen!.
Yes, 'tis
she; 'tis Franconnette!
A fairer girl was never seen.
In the town as in the prairie,
You must know that
every country
Has its chosen pearl of love.
Ah, well! This was the one--
They named her in the Canton,
The prettiest, sweetest dove.
But now, you must not fancy, gentlemen,
That she was sad and sighing,
Her features pale as any lily,
That she had dying eyes, half-shut and blue,
And slender figure clothed
with languishing,
Like to a weeping willow by a limpid lake.
Not so, my masters. Franconnette
Had two
keen flashing eyes, like two live stars;
Her laughing cheeks were round, where on a lover might
Gather
in handfuls roses bright;
Brown locks and curly decked her head;
Her lips were as the cherry red,
Whiter
than snow her teeth; her feet
How softly moulded, small and fleet;
How light her limbs! Ah, well-a-day!
And of the whole at once I say,
She was the very beau-ideal
Of beauty in a woman's form, most fair
and real.
Such loveliness, in every race,
May sudden start to light.
She fired the youths with ready love,
Each maiden with despair.
Poor youths, indeed! Oh! how they wished
To fall beneath her feet!
They all
admired her, and adored,
Just as the priest adores the cross--
'Twas as if there shone a star of light
The
young girl's brow across!
Yet, something vexing in her soul began to hover;
The finest flower had failed
her in this day of honour.
Pascal, whom all the world esteemed,
Pascal, the handsomest, whose voice
with music beamed,
He shunned the maid, cast ne'er a loving glance;
Despised! She felt hate growing in
her heart,
And in her pretty vengeance
She seized the moment for a brilliant dart
Of her bright eyes to
chain him.
What would you have? A girl so greatly envied,
She might become a flirt conceited;
Already
had she seemed all this,
Self-glorious she was, I fear,
Coquetting rarely comes amiss,
Though she might
never love, with many lovers near!
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,