st day of the
year, where, in a large chamber, some hundred distaffs were turning, and
boys and girls, with nimble fingers, were winding thread of the finest
flax. Franconnette was there, and appointed queen of the games. After
the winding was over, the songs and dances began to the music of a
tambourin. The queen, admired by all, sang and danced like the rest.

Pascal was not there; his mother was poor, and she endeavoured to
persuade him to remain at home and work. After a short struggle
with himself, Pascal yielded. He turned aside to his forge in silent
dejection; and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying,
while away down in the village the busking went merrily on. "If the
prettiest were always the most sensible," says Jasmin, "how much my
Franconnette might have accomplished;" but instead of this, she flitted
from place to place, idle and gay, jesting, singing, dancing, and, as
usual, bewitching all.

Then Thomas, Pascal's friend, asked leave to sing a few verses; and,
fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette, he began in tones of lute-like
sweetness the following song, entitled 'The Syren with a Heart of Ice.'
We have translated it, as nearly as possible, from the Gascon dialect.

"Faribolo pastouro,
Sereno al co de glas,
Oh! digo, digo couro
Entendren tinda l'houro
Oun t'amistouzaras.
Toutjour fariboulejes,
Et quand parpailloulejes
La foulo que mestrejes,
Sur toun cami set met

Et te siet.
Mais res d'acos, maynado,
Al bounhur pot mena;
Qu'es acos d'estre aymado,
Quand on sat pas ayma?"

"Wayward shepherd maid,
Syren with heart of ice,
Oh! tell us, tell us! when
We listen for the hour
When thou shalt feel
Ever so free and gay,
And when you flutter o'er
The number you subdue,
Upon thy path they fall
At thy feet.
But nothing comes of this, young maid,
To happiness it never leads;
What is it to be loved like this
If you ne'er can love again?"

Such poetry however defies translation. The more exquisite the mastery
of a writer over his own language, the more difficult it is to reproduce
it in another. But the spirit of the song is in Miss Costello's
translation,{5} as given in Franconnette at the close of this volume.

When reciting Franconnette, Jasmin usually sang The Syren to music of
his own composition. We accordingly annex his music.

All were transported with admiration at the beautiful song. When Thomas
had finished, loud shouts were raised for