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.
But Marcel, furious, mad with
rage, exclaimed,
"Oh! could I stab and kill them! But I'm maimed!"
Only a gesture of his lord
Restrained
him, hand upon his sword.
Then did he grind his teeth, as he lay battered,
And in a low and broken
voice he muttered:
"They love each other, and despise my kindness,
She favours him, and she admires
his fondness;
Ah, well! by Marcel's patron, I'll not tarry
To make them smart, and Franconnette
No other
husband than myself shall marry!" 
SECOND PART.
The Enamoured Blacksmith--His Fretful Mother--The
Busking
Soiree--Pascal's Song--The Sorcerer of the Black Forest--
The Girl Sold to the Demon.
Since
Roquefort fete, one, two, three months have fled;
The dancing frolic, with the harvest ended;
The out-
door sports are banished--
For winter comes; the air is sad and cold, it sighs
Under the vaulted skies.
At fall of night, none risks to walk across the fields,
For each one, sad and cheerless, beelds
Before the
great fires blazing,
Or talks of wolfish fiends3 amazing;
And sorcerers--to make one shudder with affright--
That walk around the cots so wight,
Or 'neath the gloomy elms, and by farmyards at night.
But now at
last has Christmas come,
And little Jack, who beats the drum,
Cries round the hamlet, with his beaming
face:
"Come brisken up, you maidens fair,
A merry busking4 shall take place
On Friday, first night of the
year!"
Ah! now the happy youths and maidens fair
Proclaimed the drummer's words, so bright and rare.
The news were carried far and near
Light as a bird most fleet
With wings to carry thoughts so sweet.
The sun, with beaming rays, had scarcely shone
Ere everywhere the joyous news had flown;
At every
fireside they were known,
By every hearth, in converse keen,
The busking was the theme.
But when
the Friday came, a frozen dew was raining,
And by a fireless forge a mother sat complaining;
And to her
son, who sat thereby,
She spoke at last entreatingly:
"Hast thou forgot the summer day, my boy, when
thou didst come
All bleeding from the furious fray, to the sound of music home?
How I have suffered for