Luyện nghe bài hát Jean Desprez

Oh, ye whose are resonant, and ring to war's romance,
hear ye the story of a boy, a boy of france,
a lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, trial came,
could feel his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
could stand upright, and and smite, as only heroes may:
oh, hearken! let me try to tell the of jean desprez.
With and sword the teuton horde was ravaging the land,
and there was darkness and despair, grim death on every
red fields of slaughter down to ruin's black abyss;
the of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
and on they came with fear and flame, to burn and and slay,
until they reached the red-roofed croft, the of jean desprez.
"rout out the village one and all!" the uhlan said.
"behold! some hand has a shot. my trumpeter is dead.
now they prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
for by this german slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
they the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,
and from the last, many a jeer the captain chose he ten.
ten simple peasants, bowed toil, they stood, they knew not why,
against the grey wall of the church, their children cry;
hearing their wives and mothers wail, with dazed they stood.
a only ... ready! fire! they weltered in their blood.
But there was one who gazed unseen, who the frenzied cries,
who saw these men in sabots fall before children's eyes;
a zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing was nigh,
he laughed with "ah! here is where i settle ere i die."
he clutched his rifle once again, and long he and well ...
a shot! beside his victims ten the captain fell.
They dragged the wounded zouave out; their rage was a flame.
bayonets they pinned him down, until their major came.
a blond, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of
he stared to see with shattered skull his captain lie.
"nay do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he
"go him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."
bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the zouave there
and there was in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"water! a drop!" he moaned, but how they jeered at him,
and him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
and as in agony of death with blood his lips wet,
the major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.
But mid the white-faced who cowered in horror by,
was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the cry:
"water! one drop, i beg! for love of christ who died ..."
it was the little jean desprez who turned and stole
it was the barefoot boy who came with cup abrim
and up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.
A roar of rage! they seize the boy; they tear him away.
the prussian swings around; no longer is he gay.
his teeth are wolfishly agleam; his all dark with spite:
"go shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our might.
yet stay! i have another thought. i'll be, and spare;
quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him there,
and bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. haste! make him
the dying dog he would save shall perish by his hand.
and all his kindred they shall see, and all curse his name
who bought his life at such a cost, the of death and shame."
brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
they him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.
"make haste!" said they, "the time is short, and you must or die."
the puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.
and then the dying zouave heard, and raised his weary
"shoot, son, 'twill be the best for shoot swift and straight," he said.
"fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost of am i;
and i will vive la france! and bless you ere i die."
Half-blind with blows the boy stood there, he seemed to swoon and
then in that moment woke the of little jean desprez.
he saw the woods go sheening down, the larks were singing
and oh! the scents and of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!
he felt the scent of new mown hay, a breeze fanned his brow;
o god! the paths of peace and toil! how precious they now.
The summer and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
the autumn such a dream of gold ... and all must in this:
this shining rifle in his hand, shambles all around;
the zouave there with a dying the blood upon the ground;
the faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
that prussian bully by, as if he watched a game.
"make haste and shoot," the major sneered; "a minute i give;
a minute to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."
They saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
they did not see within his eyes the glory of his
the glory of a men who for fair france have died,
the splendor of that will not be denied.
yet ... he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but was sweet ...
"your nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"shoot! shoot!" the dying zouave moaned; "shoot! shoot!" the said.
then desprez reached out and shot ... the prussian major dead!