Corsica has a ninna-nanna into which the whole genius of its people seems to have passed. The village, fêtes, with dancing and music, the flocks and herds and sheep-dogs, even the mountains, stars, and sea, and the perfumed air off the macchi, come back to the traveller in that island as he reads—
Hushaby, my darling boy;
Hushaby, my hope and joy.
You're my little ship so brave
Sailing boldly o'er the wave;
One that tempests doth not fear,
Nor the winds that blow from high.
Sleep awhile, my baby dear;
Sleep, my child, and hushaby.
Gold and pearls my vessel lade,