'Well, if you will have it so, tell us why your grand-daughter is called the Song-bird, and we're repaid?' 'Because she sings like the nightingale; no, that's too sad. Like a canary; but that's a prisoner. I have it--like the morning-lark, for its song, fresh and pure, goes up to God's gates! Berthe, enter.' At the call, our young acquaintance, the traces of her recent infirmities entirely removed, came radiantly into the room, smiling with an arch smile. 'Berthe, my Song-bird, treat those gentlemen, who, you have told me, have been so good to you, to a sample of your voice.' 'What shall I sing?' asked Berthe, approaching the piano. 'Sing the romance that friend Bénic wrote for you--_le Vieil Irlandais_--for these gentlemen are from that brave and faithful land; ay, brave and faithful, for it has known how to carry the sword without taking the cross from its hilt.' The girl skilfully passed her fingers over the instrument, executing a tremulous prelude, and in a soft, sweet voice, trilled, to a pathetic air, the following touching verses, the old soldier joining in at the refrain which ended each: Mon fils, écoute un vieillard centenaire. Tu nais à peine et moi je vais mourir, Fuis, sans retour, par l'exil volontaire, Le sol ingrat qui ne peut te nourrir. Sur ce navire, où la foule s'élance, Tu vas vogeur vers les États-Unis; Dans ces climats, au sein de l'abondance, Vivent heureux vingt peuples réunis. Des flots de l'Atlantique Ne crains pas le courroux; Émigré en Amérique, Ton sort sera plus doux. Au jour naissant tu commençais l'ouvrage, Sous un ciel gris, pendant un rude hiver; J'ai vu faiblir ta force et ton courage A défricher les champs d'un duc et pair. Jamais ses pas n'ont foulé son domaine, Loin de l'Irlande il voyage en seigneur. Infortuné, la disette est prochaine, Quitte à jamais ce séjour du malheur. Des flots, etc. En cultivant des savanes fertiles, Garde ta foi, si tu veux prospérer; Fais tes adieux a nos sillons stériles; Sans espérance il faut nous séparer. Prends cet argent, fruit de longs sacrifices, Au centenaire un peu de pain suffit, La mer est belle, et les vents sont propices; Pars, mon enfant, ton aiëul te bénit. Des flots, etc.[11] There were tears in the woman's soft voice, and when she finished there were tears in the eyes of at least one of her listeners. 'Thanks, mademoiselle,' cried O'Hara, with emotion; 'thanks for that little tribute to the sorrows and affection of poor Ireland. He who wrote it knew the land, at least, in spirit.' 'He has never been there, sir, has not my friend, Laurent Bénic; he is but a humble carpenter, but he has learned to love the green Erin, the younger sister of our France, as I have.'