At the Curé's door
You now must tap,
He'll tell you how to cross the gap.
Ha! Ha! Lioba.
And what should I to the Curé say?
A mass shall I beg, or will he pray
To help my cows go over?
Ha! Ha! Lioba.
The Curé he, of a cheese was fain,
"A creamy cheese, or your cows remain
On the other side, 'tis very plain."
Ha! Ha! Lioba.
"Send us your 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 Curé 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 Curé'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 Gruyèrien. Is not the quip of the Curé worthy of any son of the Emerald Isle?
