Would any one believe that
an old dotard like me, worn out with care and infirmity, should
sometime surprise himself weeping like a child, and in a voice
querulous, and broken by age, muttering out one of those airs which
were the favorites of my infancy? There is one song in particular,
whose tune I perfectly recollect, but the words that compose the
latter half of it constantly refuse every effort to recall them,
though I have a confused idea of the rhymes. The beginning, with
what I have been able to recollect of the remainder, is as follows:
Tircis, je n'ose
Ecouter ton Chalumeau
Sous l' Ormeau;
Car on en cause
Deja dans notre hameau.
--- --- ---
-un Berger
s'engager
sans danger,
Et toujours l'epine est sous la rose.
I have endeavored to account for the invincible charm my heart feels
on the recollection of this fragment, but it is altogether
inexplicable. I only know, that before I get to the end of it, I
always find my voice interrupted by tenderness, and my eyes suffused
with tears. I have a hundred times formed the resolution of writing to
Paris for the remainder of these words, if any one should chance to
know them: but I am almost certain the pleasure I take in the
recollection would be greatly diminished was I assured any one but
my poor aunt Susan had sung them.
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