APPENDIX.

TRANSLATIONS FROM BÉRANGER.

[The translations of "Laideur et Beauté," "La Mouche," "Cinquante Ans." and "Le Vieux Vagabond," were made for this work, by Walter Learned; those of " Roger Bontemps" and "Les Souvenirs du Peuple" are from William Young's volume, by permission of D. Appleton & Co.]

VERSES FROM LES BOHEMIENS" (THE GIPSIES).

UGLINESS AND BEAUTY.

(Laideur et Beauté.)

I am quite overcome by her beauty,
Maybe I'm deceived by a mask.
Make her plain and repellent as duty;

Let her be even ugly, I ask.

While so charming, ah, who could but love her?
O powers of heaven and hell!

O spirits below and above her!

Make her plain; let me love her as well.

Then appeared at my words of complaining

Satan, father of darkness and night.

"Make her plain," said he: "this you'll be gaining,

That your rivals will flee at her sight. I am fond of these metamorphoses;

Lo, singing approaches the belle.

See! she's plain, and you love her as well."

--

"Me, plain!" she cried.

"Sure 'tis an error.

Saying which, to her glass she drew near, First in doubt and then all in terror

To fall, fainting with sorrow and fear. "Swear for me and me only to live, dear,"

Cried I, at her feet as I fell :

"Here's the one faithful heart I can give, dear, Plainer still, I would love you as well."

Then her eyes grew so heavy with weeping

That her grief touched my heart for a while :
"Give her back all the charms you are keeping!"
And Satan said "Yes," with a smile.
As the first faint blush of the morning
Her beauty returned like a spell,

New graces her fairness adorning,
Sweeter still, and I loved her as well.

Then quickly her mirror regaining,
She found not a charm out of place,
As, half to herself complaining,

She wiped off the tears from her face.

Satan fled, and the fair one, my booty, Left me, with these words like a knell : "The girl whom God makes a beauty

Cannot love one who loves her so well."

THE GAD-FLY.

(La Mouche.)

In the midst of our laughter and singing, 'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay, What gad-fly is over us winging,

That returns when we drive him away? 'Tis some god. Yes, I have a suspicion Of our happiness jealous, he's come: Let us drive him away to perdition,

That he bore us no more with his hum.

Transformed to a gad-fly unseemly,

I am certain that we must have here Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely Annoyed by our joy and our cheer. He tells us in tones of monition

Of the clouds and the tempests to come: Let us drive him away to perdition,

That he bore us no more with his hum.

It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing,
And says, "It is time to retire :
At your age one stops drinking and laughing,
Stops loving, nor sings with such fire;'
An alarm that sounds ever its mission
When the sweetest of flames overcome :
Let us drive him away to perdition,

That he bore us no more with his hum.

It is Reason! Look out there for Lizzie!
His dart is a menace alway.

-

He has touched her, she swoons-she is dizzy:
Come, Cupid, and drive him away.
Pursue him; compel his submission,
Until under your strokes he succumb.
Let us drive him away to perdition,

That he bore us no more with his hum.
VOL. I.-29

Hurrah, Victory! See, he is drowning

In the wine that Lizzetta has poured. Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning, That again he may reign at our board. He was threatened just now with dismission, And a fly made us all rather glum : But we've sent him away to perdition; He will bore us no more with his hum.

Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new heavens my soul endow :
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am fifty now!

But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my soul with dainty ways.
Shall hide from it the somber truth,

This incubus of evil days.

Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then, Scatter your roses on my brow,

And let me dream of youth again

Alas, for I am fifty now!

--

ROGER BONTEMPS.

To show our hypochondriacs,
In days the most forlorn,
A pattern set before their eyes,
Roger Bontemps was born.
To live obscurely, at his will,
To keep aloof from strife-
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps !
This is his rule of life.

To sport, when holidays occur,
The hat his father wore,
With roses or with ivy leaves
To trim it as of yore;

To wear a coarse old cloak, his friend
For twenty years-no less-
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps !
This is his style of dress.

To own a table in his hut,
A crazy bed beside it,

A pack of cards, a flute, a can
For wine-if Heaven provide it;
A beauty stuck against the wall,
A coffer, naught to hold -
Hurrah for fat Roger Bontemps !
Thus are his riches told.