PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER. JULY 18TH, 1857. THE King of Song is dead; From kings rent throne and crown, By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. No-no; he cannot die ; Still lives that matchless voice, Poor girl, the needle ply, His voice your work shall cheer; Workman, your long hours fly, His kindly words you hear. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart ; He speaks from every tongue. What garret but shall tell How dear to its grisette Of love and his Lisette? His wit they thunder out, As mad with song as wine. By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. 38 PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER. Speeding the weary plough, By France his songs are sung; He speaks from every tongue. There prowls the listening spy; He speaks from every tongue. People, he claims your rights; He speaks from every tongue. 7 Frenchmen, he lived for you; Dear and more dear to fame, Shall be his matchless name. He speaks from every tongue. Courts, and all courts could give, He dared the prisoner's doom; People, no tear need start ; By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. Wider, O France, than e'er His glory, France, with you; His fame to heaven is hurl'd; His empire without bound, His realm a subject world. People, no tear need start; By earth his songs are sung; He lives in every heart; He speaks from every tongue. NO-NO-MY LOVE IS NO ROSE. No-no-my love is no rose That only in sunshine buds and grows, In an autumn day, And dies in a dream of drifting snows; No-no-my love is no rose; My love is the holly that ever is green, In days sullen and chill, As when snow'd with blossoms the orchards are seen; No-no-my love is no rose. GOD'S BEST GIFT. COME, fill-fill to the toast O who, beloved by her, Who will not gladly own, Life, O what rapture were, Though bless'd with her alone! Then who'll not drink the toast The heathens feign'd that he Who stole from heaven its flame, Foretold all woes would be When sweet Pandora came; But all his wisdom taught, Thank Heaven! it taught in vain ; She to man's heart was caught, And who'll not drink the toast In Paradise, man found His lot not wholly bless'd, Dear woman's footsteps press'd When forced its bliss to leave! He Eden still possess'd While with him went his Eve. And still the curse she takes poor Were made a heaven by her! Here's "Woman-God's best gift." SONG. WERE mine the songs Anacreon sung, |