The Broken Fiddle
Le violon brise.
Come here, my poor dog, honest beast;
Munch away, never mind my despair
Here's a morsel of cake for to-day, at the least,
If to-morrow black bread be our fare.
Last night, in our valley, the foe —
Victors only by trickery — spoke:
" Play a tune, we would dance; " but I boldly said, " No! "
So my fiddle in anger they broke.
Twas the villagers' orchestra: now
Happy days, pleasant fêtes, are no more!
In the shade who can get up our dances? or how
Shall the Loves be aroused as of yore?
Its strings — they were lustily plied,
At the dawn of the fortunate day,
To announce the young bridegroom awaiting the bride,
With his escort to show her the way
Did the priest give an ear to its touch,
He our dance without fear would allow;
The gladness it spread all around it was such,
It had smoothed even royalty's brow.
What, and if it has preluded strains,
That our glory was wont to awake!
Could I dream that the foeman invading our plains
His revenge on a fiddle would take?
Come here, my poor dog, honest beast;
Munch away, never mind my despair.
Here's a morsel of cake for to-day, at the least,
If to-morrow black bread be our fare
How long will the Sundays appear,
In the barn, or beneath the old tree!
Will Providence smile on our vintage this year,
Since silent the fiddle will be?
How it shortened the toils of the poor!
How it took the chill off from their lot!
For the great, and for taxes, and tempests, a cure,
All alone it enlivened the cot
What hate it hath served to suppress!
What tears hath forbidden to flow!
What good — all the sceptres on earth have done less
Than was done by the scrape of my bow
But my courage they warm — we must chase
Such pitiful foes from our land!
They have broken my fiddle — 'tis well — in its place,
The musket I'll grasp in my hand!
And the friends whom I quit — a long list —
If I perish, some day, will recall,
That the barbarous hordes I refused to assist
In a dance o'er the wreck of our fall
Then come, my poor dog, honest beast;
Munch away, never mind my despair.
Here's a morsel of cake for to-day, at the least,
If to-morrow black bread be our fare
Come here, my poor dog, honest beast;
Munch away, never mind my despair
Here's a morsel of cake for to-day, at the least,
If to-morrow black bread be our fare.
Last night, in our valley, the foe —
Victors only by trickery — spoke:
" Play a tune, we would dance; " but I boldly said, " No! "
So my fiddle in anger they broke.
Twas the villagers' orchestra: now
Happy days, pleasant fêtes, are no more!
In the shade who can get up our dances? or how
Shall the Loves be aroused as of yore?
Its strings — they were lustily plied,
At the dawn of the fortunate day,
To announce the young bridegroom awaiting the bride,
With his escort to show her the way
Did the priest give an ear to its touch,
He our dance without fear would allow;
The gladness it spread all around it was such,
It had smoothed even royalty's brow.
What, and if it has preluded strains,
That our glory was wont to awake!
Could I dream that the foeman invading our plains
His revenge on a fiddle would take?
Come here, my poor dog, honest beast;
Munch away, never mind my despair.
Here's a morsel of cake for to-day, at the least,
If to-morrow black bread be our fare
How long will the Sundays appear,
In the barn, or beneath the old tree!
Will Providence smile on our vintage this year,
Since silent the fiddle will be?
How it shortened the toils of the poor!
How it took the chill off from their lot!
For the great, and for taxes, and tempests, a cure,
All alone it enlivened the cot
What hate it hath served to suppress!
What tears hath forbidden to flow!
What good — all the sceptres on earth have done less
Than was done by the scrape of my bow
But my courage they warm — we must chase
Such pitiful foes from our land!
They have broken my fiddle — 'tis well — in its place,
The musket I'll grasp in my hand!
And the friends whom I quit — a long list —
If I perish, some day, will recall,
That the barbarous hordes I refused to assist
In a dance o'er the wreck of our fall
Then come, my poor dog, honest beast;
Munch away, never mind my despair.
Here's a morsel of cake for to-day, at the least,
If to-morrow black bread be our fare
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