Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,
With a secret slyness in them;
Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,
Giving pleasure to the fancy.
Dear, affectionate young creatures,
Keeping up a sweet discussion,
As to which drink would be relish’d
Most of all by their sick uncle.
If the one the cup should bring him
Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms,
Then the other hastes to feed him
With an elder-flow’r decoction.
“I’ll not drink of either of them,”
“Cried impatiently the old man;
“Fetch some wine, that I may offer
“To my guests some better drink!”
Whether it was wine they gave me
At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really
Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick
By the name of Mum they’d call it.
Of the very best black goat-skin
Was the wine-skin, stinking foully;
Yet the old man drank with pleasure,
And he seem’d quite well and joyous.
He recounted the achievements
Of the smugglers and banditti
Merrily and freely living
In the Pyrenean forests.
Many old traditions also
Well he knew: amongst the others
Were the battles of the giants
With the bears in times primeval.
Yes, the bears then and the giants
Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry
Of these mountains and these valleys,
Ere by man they were discover’d.
But when man arrived, the giants
Fled away from out the country
Stupified, for little brains
Are contain’d in heads gigantic.