I meet my faithful loves. They murmur in the leafage, Sweet tender-throated doves. They sing the whole day long, And love is all their song. But there is a sadder note which makes itself heard in these songs of love in Poitou, as elsewhere,--the lamentation of the maiden who has listened too fondly to the words of her shepherd lover, and experienced his faithlessness. She must hide at home with her shame, and sadly find that only her dog is faithful. IT WAS THE SPRING SIX MONTHS AGO. It was the spring six months ago, And in the fresh, green fields below, My bleating flock around me fed, While watching them I spun my thread, And naught of sin or shame did know. But Colin came one evening fair, With tender words beguiled me there; "Dear shepherdess, come take my arm, Lest lonely roads should bring you harm, And ghosts or wolves in darkness scare." In his my trusting hand I place, While love invades me with its grace; I could not check his passion's strength, And wished the road of greater length, While listening with a blushing face. But Colin has a faithless mind, Inconstant as the changing wind. While I shamefaced must hide at home, Vainly asking when my love will come, But my dog alone is true and kind. The conscription, which compels the peasant, who has drawn the fatal number, to leave his native fields and his mistress, is an important and disturbing influence in the rural life of France, and finds a frequent place in its folk-song. Sometimes it is taken gayly, and the lover departs in high spirits, singing along the road to the garrison with his companions, and promising fidelity to his mistress to whom he hopes soon to return. It is thus in the gay song Voici l'Hiver Passé. THE WINTER IT IS PAST. The winter it is past, The freezing frost and snow, The springtime it has come, And to the fields we go. Above, upon the hilltop, The flowers bright and blue, The little singing birds Their joyful songs renew. They say in tender tones, In language sweet and clear, That every pretty maiden Should have a lover dear. But mine has gone away, A soldier's trade to learn In service at Bordeaux, But he will soon return. We go, my comrades brave, Let's bid our girls good-by, Give them a parting kiss, And tell them not to cry. With knapsack on the back, We make a brave convoy. We march along the road With gallant songs of joy. At Bordeaux, when you come, And other girls you see, You 'll make another choice, And think no more of me. When I am at Bordeaux, Fond letters I will write,