Come! Come! Large and small, The black, the white, the short, the tall, Starry forehead, red and gold, All the young and all the old. Under the oak tree come! Ha! Ha! Lioba. Bells came first, Jet black came last, But at the stream they stopped aghast. Ha! Ha! Lioba. Alas, poor Pierre! what will you do? Trouble enough you have, 'tis true. Ha! Ha! Lioba. At the Cure's door You now must tap, He'll tell you how to cross the gap. Ha! Ha! Lioba. And what should I to the Cure say? A mass shall I beg, or will he pray To help my cows go over? Ha! Ha! Lioba. The Cure he, of a cheese was fain, "A creamy cheese, or your cows remain On the other side, 'tis very plain." Ha! Ha! Lioba. "Send us your pretty maid," said Pierre, "To carry the cheese, I speak you fair." Ha! Ha! Lioba. "Too pretty by far is my rosy maid, She might not return," the Cure said. Ha! Ha! Lioba. "What belongs to the Church We may not take, Confession humble we then should make." Ha! Ha! Lioba. "Go to friend Pierre, The mass shall be said, Good luck be yours, rich cheese and bread." Ha! Ha! Lioba. Gayly Pierre went to his waiting herd, And freely they passed at the Cure's word. Ha! Ha! Lioba. The soft terminations of the romanized French are never more musical than in this famous song which, during their foreign campaigns, reduced the Swiss soldiers to such weeping longing for home that it was forbidden by their generals. Melancholy as is the repeated refrain, the couplets reveal a ravishing picture of the customs and the observing satirical spirit of the Gruyerien. Is not the quip of the Cure worthy of any son of the Emerald Isle? [Illustration: JOUSTING COURT]