Classic Poem

Le vieux Menetrier.

A fiddler, and a poor old soul,
The village is my beat:
Some deem me wondrous wise, because
I drink my liquor neat
In the shade, around me, haste,
Toil is over, pleasure taste!
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!

Yes, under my old oak-tree dance,
Hard by the tavern door:
All hatred, in the good old days,
Beneath it soon was o'er
Often have its thick-leaved boughs
Heard our grandsires' mutual vows!
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!

Pity the lord of stately halls,
Even whilst you bow the knee;
Your tranquil, simple, rustic life
With envy he must see
Whilst in splendid carriage there,
Dull and sad, he takes the air,
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!

At church, so far from cursing him
Who there hath never kneeled,
Invoke Heaven's blessing on his crop,
His vineyard, and his field
If he make a god of Pleasure,
Let him here his incense measure
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!

If hedges, thin and full of gaps,
Your heritage should bound,
Don't use your reaping-hook on fields
Where others tilled the ground:
But, assured that what you leave
Duly shall your sons receive,
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!

When Peace is healing with her balm
The ills that on us weighed,
Don't from his cottage exile him
Who, blinded, blindly strayed —
But recalling those whom, erst,
Tempests, now at rest, dispersed,
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!

Then heed the poor old man: go, find
Beneath his oak a place;
Children, I charge you to forgive,
And one and all, embrace!
Then, from age to age, that peace
May amongst us never cease,
Cheerly, cheerly, village folk,
Dance beneath my aged oak!