So near at hand was the holy tide
Of our Lady of mercies tender;
The King of the Swedes his followers leads,
And rides to the Church in splendour.
So I laid an arrow on my good bow,
As I looked from the gap so narrow;
And into the heart of the Swedish King
I sent the yard-long arrow.
Now lies on the ground the Swedish King,
And the blood from his death-wound showers;
So blythe is my breast, though still I must rest
Amid the forest bowers.
THE EYES
To kiss a pair of red lips small
Full many a lover sighs;
If I kiss anything at all,
Let it be Sophy’s eyes.
The eyes, the eyes, whose witcheries
Have filled my heart with care;
Too dear I prize the eyes, the eyes
Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.
Were I the Czar, my kingly crown,
My troops and victories,
And fair renown I’d all lay down
To kiss but Sophy’s eyes.
The charming eyes, whose witcheries
Have filled my heart with care;
Too dear I prize the charming eyes
Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.
Perhaps I’ve seen a fairer face,
Though hers may well surprise;
A form perhaps of lovelier grace,
But, oh! the eyes, the eyes!
The matchless eyes, whose witcheries
Have filled my heart with care;
I well may prize the matchless eyes
Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.
What with the polished diamond-stone
Can vie beneath the skies?
Oh, it is vied and far outshone
By Sophy’s beaming eyes.
By Sophy’s eyes, whose witcheries
Have filled my heart with care;
Well may I prize the beaming eyes
Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.
The sun of June burns furiously,
And brooks and meadows dries;
But, oh, with more intensity
Burn cruel Sophy’s eyes!
The wicked eyes, whose witcheries
Have filled my heart with care;
Too dear I prize the wicked eyes
Of Sophy Ribeaupierre.