Bonnes, bonnes, bonnes!
Quand les châtaignes nous avons,
Nous les mangeons, puis nous mourons.
"After the fourth couplet the ballad was interrupted. Our Cevenols raised their boughs, brandished the leaves, and made therewith the sign of the cross.
'On your knees!' said the old woman, extending her hand. The beaters knelt at once. Then, all at once, from a thousand sturdy breasts young for the most part, rolled forth the final verse of the Complainte du Châtaignier. It was as grand, as beautiful, as sublime as any psalm, any hymn I have heard in any church.
"Cévennes pleins de rochers,
Hautes, hautes, hautes!
Cévennes pleins de rochers,
Faites nous forts et religieux."