“But when at length our poor Champagne
       By foes was overrun,
     He seemed alone to hold his ground;
       Nor dangers would he shun. 
     One night—­as might be now—­I heard
       A knock—­the door unbarred—­
     And saw—­good God! ’twas he, himself,
       With but a scanty guard. 
     ‘Oh, what a war is this!’ he cried,
       Taking this very chair.” 
     “What! granny, granny, there he sat? 
       What! granny, he sat there?”

     “‘I’m hungry,’ said he:  quick I served
       Thin wine and hard brown bread;
     He dried his clothes, and by the fire
       In sleep dropped down his head. 
     Waking, he saw my tears—­’Cheer up,
       Good dame!’ says he, ’I go
     ‘Neath Paris’ walls to strike for France
       One last avenging blow.’ 
     He went; but on the cup he used
       Such value did I set—­
     It has been treasured.”—­“What! till now? 
       You have it, granny, yet?”

     “Here ’tis:  but ’twas the hero’s fate
       To ruin to be led;
     He whom a Pope had crowned, alas! 
       In a lone isle lies dead. 
     ’Twas long denied:  ‘No, no,’ said they,
       ’Soon shall he reappear! 
     O’er ocean comes he, and the foe
       Shall find his master here.’ 
     Ah, what a bitter pang I felt,
       When forced to own ’twas true!”
     “Poor granny!  Heaven for this will look—­
       Will kindly look on you.”

Translation of William Young.

THE OLD TRAMP

(LE VIEUX VAGABOND)

Here in this gutter let me die: 
Weary and sick and old, I’ve done. 
“He’s drunk,” will say the passers-by: 
All right, I want no pity—­none. 
I see the heads that turn away,
While others glance and toss me sous: 
“Off to your junket! go!” I say: 
Old tramp,—­to die I need no help from you.

Yes, of old age I’m dying now: 
Of hunger people never die. 
I hoped some almshouse might allow
A shelter when my end was nigh;
But all retreats are overflowed,
Such crowds are suffering and forlorn. 
My nurse, alas! has been the road: 
Old tramp,—­here let me die where I was born.

When young, it used to be my prayer
To craftsmen, “Let me learn your trade.” 
“Clear out—­we’ve got no work to spare;
Go beg,” was all reply they made. 
You rich, who bade me work, I’ve fed
With relish on the bones you threw;
Made of your straw an easy bed: 
Old tramp,—­I have no curse to vent on you.

Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal;
But no, I’d rather beg my bread. 
At most I thieved a wayside meal
Of apples ripening overhead. 
Yet twenty times have I been thrown
In prison—­’twas the King’s decree;
Robbed of the only thing I own: 
Old tramp,—­at least the sun belongs to me.

The poor man—­is a country his? 
What are to me your corn and wine,
Your glory and your industries,
Your orators?  They are not mine. 
And when a foreign foe waxed fat
Within your undefended walls,
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that: 
Old tramp,—­his hand was open to my calls.