tell me, tell me, my page, whose colours do these
people bear?" "It is the Duc de Vendôme, your
great enemy. Spur, spur, my master, and draw
bridle for flight." "Fly! a Bois-Gille! Page!
thou art losing thy wits." They met near the great
landmark, and gave each other good-day, like
gentlemen. "Good-day, good-day, Bois-Gille." "And
good-day to thee, Vendôme!" "Dost thou remember,
Bois-Gille, the affront thou didst offer me? Before the
young queen three times thou gavedst me the lie?
Before the queen-mother thou didst strike me a
blow?" "When these words were ended, the combat
began. Bois-Gille slew thirty, but his good
sword gave way. He called to his page: "O
Johnnie, my boy, go quick, tell my wife that she is a
widow. Go quick, tell the nurse to cherish my boy,
that one day he avenge me on these people here."
And when he had spoken, Bois-Gille was no
more.]

The following is a Breton ballad:

     En chevauchant mes chevaux rouges,
               Laire, laire, laire, loure ma Ian laire.
     En chevauchant mes chevaux rouges,
     J'entends le rossignol chanter, (bis)
     Qui me disait dans son langage,
               Laire, &c.,
     "Tu ris quand tu devras pleurer
     De la mort de ta pauvr' Jeanne,
     Qu 'on est à c't' heure à enterrer.
    —T'en as menti, maudite langue;
     Car j'étas hier au sa' au' lé,
     Où c' qu'al' filait sa quenouillette
     Su' l' billot dans le coin du fouyer."
     Là, quand je fus dedans les landes,
     J'sentis les cloches hober;
     Et quand je fus dans le cemm'tarre,
     J'entendis les prêtres hucher;
     Et quand je fus dedans l'église,
     Je vis un corps qui repensait.
     Je daubis du pied dans la chasse:
     "Reviell' ous, Jeanne, s' ous dormez?
    —Non, je ne dors ni ne soumeille
     Je sis dans l'enfer à brûler.
     Auprès de moi reste une place,
     C'est pour vous, Piar', qu'on l'a gardée.
    —Ha! dites-moi plutôt, ma Jeanne,
     Comment fair' pour n'y point aller.
    —II faut aller à la grand-messe,
     Et aux vêpres sans y manquer;
     Faut point aller aux fileries m
     Comm' vous aviez d'accoutumé."

[Harnessing my chesnut horses, thus I heard the
nightingale sing. Her song was words to me, and
thus I heard: "Thou smilest when thou shouldst be
weeping, for the death of thy poor Jeanie; at this
moment they are burying her." "Thou liest,
accursed tongue! I was with her but last night; she
was spinning with her distaff, on the settle in the
chimney-corner. There when I was on the heath, I
heard the church-bells toll; and when I came to the
graveyard I heard the priests' loud tones; and when
I went into the church I saw a corpse laid there
I hurt my foot in hunting. Wak'st thou or sleep'st
thou, Jeanie?" "I neither slumber nor sleep, I am
burning in hell-fire. By me there is a place, a place
kept well for thee." "Ha! Jeanie, tell me rather
how must I save me from it? To high mass must
thou go, nor vespers must thou shirk, nor must thou
go, as is thy wont, to the ungodly spinnings."]

Villemarqué says that the gatherings called
Fileries, or Spinnings, where the women meet to
spin, the men to make love, or gossip, with now
and then the professional story-teller or ballad-
singer coming in with their amusements for an
interlude, are very common to this day in Brittany,
and are not favoured by the priests, as they
are supposed to lead to immorality. It is curious
to trace similar customs in countries widely
apart. The peasants of the Black Forest meet in
a somewhat similar way of winter evenings, the
women to spin, the men to sing songs or tell
tales; and an especial class of literature has
been provided for them in late years to take the
place of tales and songs that were deemed
objectionable by the clergy of the province. And in
the volume of Miscellanies published by Southey's
executors after his death, and purporting to be
the collection which he had made for his
continuation of The Doctor, there is a pathetic
little narrative called "Th' terrible Knitters
o' Dent," from which we may gather that the
inhabitants of the Yorkshire dales met in the
same manner not many years ago; only their
purpose was knitting, not spinning.

The following is a ballad of Auvergne, and
allows a tragical sentiment to appear through
the small trivial details:

     DE DION ET DE LA FILLE DU ROI.

     Le roi est Ià-haut sur ses ponts
     Qui tient sa fille en son giron.
          .    .    .    .
     C'est en lui parlant de Dion:

     "Ma fille, n'aimez-pas Dion:
     Car c'est un chevalier félon,
     C'est le plus pauvre chevalier
     Qui n'a pas cheval pour monter.

    —J'aime Dion, je l'aimerai;
     Plus que la mèr' qui m' a portée,
     Plus que vous, père, qui parlez,
     J'aime Dion, je l'aimerai."

     Le roi appelle ses geoliers:
     "Vite! ma fille emprisonnez
     Dans la plus haute de mes tours;
     Qu'ell' n'y voye ni soleil ni jour."

     Elle y fut bien sept ans passés
     Sans qu' son pèr' vint la visiter;
     Et quand il y eut sept ans passés,
     Son père fut la visiter.

    "Eh bien! ma fill', comment qu' ça va?
   —Helas! mon per' ça va for mal.
    J'ai un côté dedans les fers,
    Et l'autr' qu'est rongé des vers.

    â€“Ma fille, n'aimez pas Dion,
    Car c'est un chevalier félon;
    C'est le plus pauvre chevalier,
    Qui n'a pas cheval pour monter.

   —J'aime Dion, je l'aimerai;
    Plus que la mer' qui m'a portée,
    Plus que vous, père, qui parlez,
    J'aime Dion, je l'aimerai,"

    Le roi rappelle ses geoliers:
    "Vite! ma fille emprisonnez
    Dans la plus haute de mes tours,
    Qu'elle n'y voye ni soleil ni jour!"

    Le beau Dion passa par-là,
    Un mot de lettre lui jeta,
    Où il y a dessus écrit:
    "Faites-vous morte enseveli'!"