Luyện nghe bài hát Jean Desprez

Oh, ye hearts are resonant, and ring to war's romance,
hear ye the of a boy, a peasant boy of france,
a lad uncouth and warped toil, yet who, when trial came,
could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred
could upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
oh, hearken! let me try to tell the tale of desprez.
With fire and sword the horde was ravaging the land,
and there was darkness and despair, grim death on every
red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black
the wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did miss.
and on they came with and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
until they the red-roofed croft, the home of jean desprez.
"rout out the village one and all!" the captain said.
"behold! some hand has fired a shot. my is dead.
now shall they prussian know; now shall they rue the day,
for by this sacred german slain, ten of dogs shall pay."
they drove the cowering peasants forth, and babes and men,
and from the last, with many a jeer the captain he ten.
ten simple peasants, bowed with toil, they stood, they not why,
against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children
hearing their wives and wail, with faces dazed they stood.
a moment only ... ready! fire! they weltered in blood.
But was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,
who saw these men in sabots before their children's eyes;
a zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing was nigh,
he laughed with joy: "ah! here is where i ere i die."
he clutched his once again, and long he aimed and well ...
a shot! beside his victims ten the uhlan fell.
They dragged the wounded zouave out; their rage was a flame.
with they pinned him down, until their major came.
a blond, full-blooded man he was, and of eye;
he to see with shattered skull his favorite captain lie.
"nay do not him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;
"go him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."
With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the there
and there was in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"water! a single drop!" he moaned, but how they at him,
and mocked him with an cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
and as in agony of with blood his lips were wet,
the prussian major laughed, and lit a cigarette.
But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in by,
was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the cry:
"water! one little drop, i beg! for of christ who died ..."
it was the little jean desprez who and stole aside;
it was the little barefoot boy who came 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 major swings no longer is he gay.
his teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark spite:
"go shoot the brat," he snarls, "that defy our prussian might.
yet stay! i have another thought. kindly be, and spare;
quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him there,
and bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. haste! him understand
the dying dog he fain would save shall by his hand.
and all his kindred shall see, and all shall curse his name
who bought his life at such a cost, the price of and shame."
They the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.
"make haste!" said they, "the time is short, and you kill or die."
the major puffed his cigarette, in his eye.
and then the dying zouave heard, and his weary head:
"shoot, son, be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.
"fire and last, and do not flinch; for lost of hope am i;
and i will murmur: la france! and bless you ere i die."
Half-blind with blows the boy stood there, he seemed to and sway;
then in that woke the soul 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 soft breeze fanned his
o god! the paths of peace and toil! how precious were now.
The summer days and summer ways, how bright hope and bliss!
the such a dream of gold ... and all must stand in this:
this shining rifle in his hand, that all around;
the zouave there with a dying glare; the blood upon the
the faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"make haste and shoot," the major sneered; "a minute more i
a minute to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."
only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
they did not see within his the glory of his race;
the glory of a million men who for fair france died,
the splendor of self-sacrifice that not be denied.
yet ... he was but a lad, and oh! but life was sweet ...
"your minute's gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"shoot! shoot!" the dying moaned; "shoot! shoot!" the soldiers said.
then jean desprez reached out and shot ... the major dead!