“And such were aye the songs,” said the old man,
“Sung in the good old days when Martha span.
Long-winded, maybe, and the tunes were queer.
But, youngsters, what of that? They suit my ear.
Your new French airs mayhap may finer be;
But no one understands the words, you see!”
Whereon the men, somewhat as in a dream,
From table rose, and to the running stream
They led their patient mules, six yoke in all.
The long vine-branches from a trellised wall
Waved o’er them waiting, and, from time to time,
Humming some fragment of the weaver’s rhyme.
Mirèio tarried, but not quite alone.
A social spirit had the little one,
And she and Vincen chatted happily.
Twas a fair sight, the two young heads to see
Meeting and parting, coming still and going
Like aster-flowers when merry winds are blowing.
“Now tell me, Vincen,” thus Mirèio,
“If oftentimes as you and Ambroi go
Bearing your burdens the wild country over,
Some haunted castle you do not discover,
Or joyous fête, or shining palace meet,
While the home-nest is evermore our seat.”
“’Tis even so, my lady, as you think.
Why, currants quench the thirst as well as drink!
What though we brave all weathers in our toil?
Sure, we have joys that rain-drops cannot spoil
The sun of noon beats fiercely on the head,
But there are wayside trees unnumberèd.
“And whenso’er return the summer hours,
And olive-trees are all bedecked with flowers,
We hunt the whitening orchards curiously,
Still following the scent, till we descry
In the hot noontide, by its emerald flash,
The tiny cantharis upon the ash.
“The shops will buy the same. Or off we tramp
And gather red-oak apples in the swamp,
Or beat the pond for leeches. Ah, that’s grand!
You need nor bait nor hook, but only stand
And strike the water, and then one by one
They come and seize your legs, and all is done.
“And thou wert never at Li Santo even!
Dear heart! The singing there must be like heaven.
’Tis there they bring the sick from all about
For healing; and the church is small, no doubt:
But, ah, what cries they lift! what vows they pay
To the great saints! We saw it one fête-day.
“It was the year of the great miracle.
My God, that was a sight! I mind it well.
A feeble boy, beautiful as Saint John,
Lay on the pavement, sadly calling on
The saints to give sight to his poor blind eyes,
And promising his pet lamb in sacrifice.
“‘My little lamb, with budding horns!’ he said,
‘Dear saints!’ How we all wept! Then from o’erhead
The blessed reliquaries came down slowly,
Above the throngèd people bending lowly,
And crying, ‘Come, great saints, mighty and good!
Come, save!’ The church was like a wind-swept wood.