The fairies of the mountain reëcho the air. The fishes in the sea dart about rejoicing, And the sailors on the deck dance gaily as they hear it. The rocks upon the mountain split themselves asunder In hearing her voice and seeing her beauty. When I cast a glance, which rests upon my mistress, It seems to me I see the queen of all the maidens. Her dainty hands are mingled with red and with white, And her eyes are brilliant as the stars in the sky. Her two cheeks are roses of a natural color, And her lips are as sweet as the pure honeycomb. -- Good morning, my fair maiden, on my knees I fall To ask your benediction to become a Capuchin. To ask your benediction to become a Recollet, In St. Francis convent, in the village of Morlaix. --Oh, enough of Recollets has St. Francis's convent, And enough of priests has the village of Morlaix. There are enough of priests everywhere in the country, Marry the one you love, and God will also love you. If you become a Recollet at St. Francis convent, I will go to the Calvary and there become a nun. There we will hear together the bells of our two convents, And there we will be singing the praises of our Lord. There we will be singing, with our lifted voices, The _Gloria in Excelsis_ and the _Salve Regina._ The hero of the piece entitled I will be neither Priest nor Monk is made of more determined stuff, and demands that his books shall be thrown into the fire, and liberty given him to marry the object of his love, or else he will die:-- I WILL BE NEITHER PRIEST NOR MONK. Between the prairie and the grassy hill, There is a bridge, I know it to my will. No one can pass at eve along its planks, Because of scholars rude, who play their pranks. When at prayers I should be at grand mass, No pater nor ave from my lips does pass. Across my shoulder I only fix my glance On the young girl, who causes my mischance. I see my sweet beneath the shadowed nave, As the lily fair, and as the red gold brave. A cambric cap upon her head sets well, Which cost, at least, six ecus for an ell. And underneath a fine coiffure of lace, That like a lily's margin frames her face. Her petticoat, so rounded and so gay, Shines with a double silver cord's display. A robe she wears as red as any coal, And, oh, I love her in my inmost soul. --Put money in your pocket, little fool, And to Treguier take your way to school. Go to Treguier, and there study well, Become a priest and follow the church bell. --Keep your money in your own purse for me, For, by my faith, no priest nor monk I 'll be. My books throw in the fire, and let them burn, Or give them to my brother in his turn. No priest or monk I ever shall be made,