The fourth pair I have begun to wear, Her thought I do not know. Five pairs, alas, in good count, Her thought I do not know. --If it is my thought you wish to know, It is not I, who will make a mystery of it. There are three roads on each side of my house, Choose one among them. Choose whichever you like among them, Provided it will take you far from here. --More is worth love, since it pleases me, Than wealth with which I do not know what to do. Wealth comes, and wealth it goes away, Wealth serves for nothing. Wealth passes like the yellow pears: Love endures for ever. More is worth a handful of love Than an oven full of gold and silver. Another form of the love song than the melancholy apostrophe to the mistress, and the simple moralizing which accompanies it, is the gay chant, which was composed to the dance measures played by the _biniou_ and the _bombarde_ at the village fêtes, and which was sung in accord with them. On these occasions, which were chiefly the Pardons, or gatherings to celebrate the days of the Patron Saints, when the religious exercises are concluded, the young men engage in athletic competition, wrestling and jumping for prizes under the eyes of their sweethearts, and the festivities wind up with dancing on the green, and the scene is as gay as if it had no connection with religion. Every Breton story teller, and every writer on the life and customs of Brittany, has delighted to depict these scenes, which are the rendezvous of youthful lovers and the embodiment of vigorous and healthy gayety, with all the picturesqueness of country life and color. The element of these dance songs is their lively and strongly accented melody to accompany the dancing air and illustrate the movements, as in the following specimen:-- Sunday I have seen, Sunday I will see, Three of my young lovers, Who 'll come and dance with me. Dance between the two, And pass before them gay, Dance between the three, And wave them all away. Press the foot of that; And wink the eye at this; Mock the other's pride; There is no greater bliss. When you come to call, Pray let me know the hour; I will grease my cakes And put eggs in the flour. I will oil the door; The hinges will not creak; In the closet bed I 'll lie, and will not speak. Come not through the yard, My flowers you will tread, My onions, and my cress, My peas and berries red. Throw straw upon the fire To show your darling head.