Norse Lullaby

The sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night, And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;" He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: "Sleep, little one, sleep."

On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing, And only the vine can hear her sing: "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep."

The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song I sing the best,-- Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, anext my heart Sleep, little one, sleep.

BERANGER'S "MY LAST SONG PERHAPS" [JANUARY, 1814]

When, to despoil my native France, With flaming torch and cruel sword And boisterous drums her foeman comes, I curse him and his vandal horde! Yet, what avail accrues to her, If we assume the garb of woe? Let's merry be,--in laughter we May rescue somewhat from the foe!

Ah, many a brave man trembles now. I (coward!) show no sign of fear; When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends, I drown my panic in his cheer. Come, gather round my humble board, And let the sparkling wassail flow,-- Chuckling to think, the while you drink, "This much we rescue from the foe!"

My creditors beset me so And so environed my abode, That I agreed, despite my need, To settle up the debts I owed; When suddenly there came the news Of this invasion, as you know; I'll pay no score; pray, lend me more,-- I--I will keep it from the foe!

Now here's my mistress,--pretty dear!-- Feigns terror at this martial noise, And yet, methinks, the artful minx Would like to meet those soldier boys! I tell her that they're coarse and rude, Yet feel she don't believe 'em so,-- Well, never mind; so she be kind, That much I rescue from the foe!

If, brothers, hope shall have in store For us and ours no friendly glance, Let's rather die than raise a cry Of welcome to the foes of France! But, like the swan that dying sings, Let us, O Frenchmen, singing go,-- Then shall our cheer, when death is near, Be so much rescued from the foe!