My heart demands the love of a fair maid. A lovely maid of Cornouaille, I ween, With eyes of blue and locks of amber sheen. And if I cannot have that golden head, Prepare the mass, for soon I shall be dead. In The Secrets of the Clerk there is a more delicate fancy, and the gracious avowal has all the charm of a natural and touching imagery:-- THE SECRETS OF THE CLERK. Each night, each night, as on my bed I lie, I do not sleep, but turn myself and cry. I do not sleep, but turn myself and weep, When I think of her I love so deep. Each day I seek the Wood of Love so dear, In hopes to see you at its streamlet clear. When I see you come through the forest grove, On its leaves I write the secrets of my love. --But a fragile trust are the forest leaves, To hold the secrets close which their page receives. When comes the storm of rain, and gusty air, Your secrets close are scattered everywhere. 'T were safer far, young clerk, on my heart to write. Graven deep they'd rest, and never take their flight. The amatory folk-songs of Brittany have their peculiar images and phrases, like those of all other countries, and which are repeated without variation as almost essential characteristics. The reader of Scottish ballads knows how invariably the recipient of a letter first smiles and then has his eyes blinded by tears, and recalls the constant repetition of familiar images and descriptions. So in the Breton folk-songs the lover constantly declares that he has worn out three pairs of sabots in coming to see her without being able to find out her thought, and that he has watched in the wind and rain through the night with no consolation but the sound of her soft breathing through the key-hole of the door; to which the cruel or coquettish damsel replies that she has no objection to tell him her thought, which is that he should buy a new pair of shoes, or that he should take himself home as soon as possible. The piece entitled In the White Cabin at the Foot of the Mountain is a characteristic specimen of these songs, whose effect of simplicity can only be retained by an absolutely literal translation: -- In the white cabin at the foot of the mountain Is my sweet, my love. Is my love, is my desire, And all my happiness. Before the night I must see her Or my little heart will break. My little heart will not break For my lovely dear I have seen. Fifty night I have been At the threshold of her door; she did not know it. The rain and the wind whipped me, Until my garments dripped. Nothing came to console me Except the sound of breathing from her bed. Except the sound of breathing from her bed, Which came through the little hole for the key. Three pairs of shoes I have worn out, Her thought I do not know.