pretty maid," said Pierre,
"To carry the cheese,
I speak you fair."
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

"Too pretty by far is my rosy maid,
She might not return," the Cure said.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

"What belongs to the Church
We may not take,
Confession humble we then should make."
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

"Go to friend Pierre,
The mass shall be said,
Good luck be yours, rich cheese and bread."
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

Gayly Pierre went to his waiting herd,
And freely they passed at the Cure's word.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.

The soft terminations of the romanized French are never more musical
than in this famous song which, during their foreign campaigns, reduced
the Swiss soldiers to such weeping longing for home that it was
forbidden by their generals. Melancholy as is the repeated refrain, the
couplets reveal a ravishing picture of the customs and the observing
satirical spirit of the Gruyerien. Is not the quip of the Cure worthy of
any son of the Emerald Isle?

[Illustration: JOUSTING COURT]

In truth this "_verte Gruyere_" shut away from the world by its
mountains as Ireland is by the sea, is like a lost island, fabled,
remote, its speech Provencal, its soul purely Celt. Laughter loving,
warlike and brave in the idyllic years of their prime, the Gruyeriens of
to-day are still gay, caustic of wit as they are kindly at heart; and,
in a changed world, as tenacious of their new republican rights as they
were erstwhile valiant vassals to their pastoral kings. The source of
innumerable songs and legends in the rich and melodious Gruyere speech,
still pastoral, this country has been celebrated in its exquisite,
unchanging beauty by many poets; its romances and its national song have
been the themes of dramatic and musical inspirations. Not yet has the
cruel light of modern day chased the fairies, the may-maidens, the
"servans" and the evil spirits from the forests and the caves. The place
where the devil, joining in a coraule, drew the dancing people over a
precipice is still shunned by young and old; with pride also will they
point out the slope of the Gruyere hill where when the men were fighting
at the _Pre de Chenes_ the women drove their goats, each bearing a
lighted candle, through the darkness upon an invading horde of Bernois,
who, thinking they were devils, fled in affright. For the refreshment of
the good spirits who guard the herds, basins of fresh milk are st