Pierre Dupont's songs may be divided into
four categories.

His first "manner," as painters say, is seen
in the Peasants, of which the following may be
taken as a fair specimen:

          LES BOEUFS. THE OXEN.

   Two oxen in my stable stand,
      Two great oxen, white and red,
   The plough is all of maple-wood,
      Of holly-branch the goad is made.
   All by their labour is the plain
      In winter green, in summer gold,
   They gain more money in a week
      Than the price at which they sold.
                    If I had to sell the pair,
                    I'd rather hang myself, I swear!
          Jeanne my wife I love, but if I had to
                 choose
          'Tween her and them, 'tis her I'd rather
                 lose!

   Mark them well, the gallant beasts!
      Delving deeply, tracing straight,
   Rain and tempest, heat and cold,
      Hinder not their patient gait.
   When I halt awhile to drink,
      Like a mist on summer morns
   Steams their breath, and little birds
      Come and perch upon their horns.
                    If I had to sell the pair, &c.

   Strong as any oil-press, they
      Gentle yet as sheep can be;
   Every year the town-folk come
      Bargaining for them with me,
   To keep them till Shrove-Tuesday comes
      And lead them out before the king,
   Then sell them to the butcher's knife—
      They're mine: I'll have no such thing!
                    If I had to sell the pair, &c.

   When our daughter is grown up,
      If the regent's son should come
   To marry her, I promise him
      All the money saved at home;
   But if for dowry he should ask
      The two great oxen, white and red,
   Daughter, bid the crown good-by,
      Home the oxen shall be led.
                    If I had to sell the pair, &c.

It was these songs that first established his
popularity, and many of them, especially the
foregoing and Les Louis d'Or, The Golden Louis
may still be heard on organs and hurdy-gurdies
all over France.

      THE SONG OF THE WORKING MEN.

   We whose lamp, when the shivering morn
      Is announced by the cock-crow, is lit,
   We all, whom the struggle to live
      Brings ere dawn to the forge and the pit;
   We whose labour from morning to night
      Is a struggle of arms, hands, and feet—
   And that but to live for to-day—
      No earning for age a retreat.
            Brothers! let's love, and think,
               When round the table we stand,
               Though the cannon be near at hand,
                         To drink
               To the freedom of every land!

   Our arms, from the niggardly earth,
      From the jealous wave, painfully bring
   Hid treasures, food, metals, and gems,
      Pearls and diamonds to deck out a king:
   Rich fruits from the glowing hill-sides,
      From the plains golden grain, ripe and full.
   Poor sheep! while our backs remain bare
      What warm mantles are made of our wool!
            Brothers! let's love, and think,
               When round the table we stand,
               Though the cannon be near at hand,
                         To drink
               To the freedom of every land!

   What profit have we of the work
      That crookens our meagre spines?
   Gain we aught by our floods of sweat?
      We are nothing but mere machines!
   To the sky do our Babels mount,
      To us earth owes her rarities;
   But when once the honey is made
      The master has done with the bees.
            Brothers! let's love, and think,
               When round the table we stand,
               Though the cannon be near at hand,
                         To drink
               To the freedom of every land!

    Our women must offer their breasts
      To the feeble stranger-child,
   Who, later, to sit by their side,
      Would consider himself defiled.
   The rights of the lords of the soil
      Upon us heavily tell,
   Our daughters their honour for bread,
      To the lowest of shopboys sell.
            Brothers! let's love, and think,
               When round the table we stand,
               Though the cannon be near at hand,
                         To drink
               To the freedom of every land!

   Half-naked, 'neath rafters we dwell,
      Amid ruins, in pestilent holes,
   Now lodging 'mid villains and thieves,
      And now with the rats and the owls.
   Yet withal, our vermilion blood
      Through our veins impetuous flows—
   How we joy in the sunshine's gold,
      And the green of the oaken boughs!
            Brothers! let's love, and think,
               When round the table we stand,
               Though the cannon be near at hand,
                         To drink
               To the freedom of every land!

   Every time that the purple tide
      Of our life-blood waters the eartb,
   'Tis for tyrants' lust that the dew,
      Is of fertilising worth.
   Let us spare it, brothers, henceforth,
      For love is stronger than war,
   While we pray that better days,
      May come with a happier star!
            Brothers! let's love, and think,
               When round the table we stand,
               Though the cannon be near at hand,
                         To drink
               To the freedom of every land!

But beside these two styles, and mingling
with them, are two others, of which the one is
of an idyllic cast, delicately imaginative, as in
La Blonde, Eusèbe, &c., touched, here and
there, with a sort of mystic and loving philosophy;
and the other a lighter kind of verse, as
in L'Emigrée de Prance, The French (female)
Exile, and La Chataine;* but in this latter order
* A woman between dark and fair.—We have no
English equivalent.