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 and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
could feel within his soul and soar the sacred flame;
could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as heroes may:
oh, hearken! let me try to tell the of jean desprez.
With fire and the teuton horde was ravaging the land,
and there was darkness and despair, grim death on hand;
red fields of slaughter sloping down to black abyss;
the wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did miss.
and on they with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
until they reached the red-roofed croft, the 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 german slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
they the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,
and the last, with many a jeer the captain chose he ten.
ten simple peasants, bowed with toil, they stood, knew not why,
against the grey wall of the church, their children cry;
hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces they stood.
a moment only ... ready! fire! weltered in their blood.
But there was one who gazed unseen, who the frenzied cries,
who saw these men in sabots fall before their eyes;
a wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
he with joy: "ah! here is where i settle 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 their rage was like a flame.
bayonets they pinned him down, until their major came.
a blond, man he was, and arrogant 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 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 with blood his lips were wet,
the prussian gaily 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 boy who came with cup abrim
and walked up to the man, and gave the drink to him.
A roar of rage! they seize the boy; they him fast away.
the prussian major swings around; no is he gay.
his teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all with spite:
"go the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our prussian might.
yet stay! i have thought. i'll kindly be, and spare;
quick! the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,
and bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. haste! make him
the dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.
and all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his
who bought his life at such a cost, the of death and shame."
They the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
they stood him by the 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 zouave heard, and raised his weary head:
"shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot and straight," he said.
"fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost of am i;
and i will murmur: vive la france! and you ere i die."
with blows the boy stood there, he seemed to swoon and sway;
then in moment woke the soul of little jean desprez.
he saw the go sheening down, the larks were singing clear;
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 and toil! how precious were they now.
The days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
the such a dream of gold ... and all must stand in this:
this rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;
the zouave there with a glare; the blood upon the ground;
the brutal round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"make haste and shoot," the major "a minute more i give;
a minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself live."
only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
they did not see within his eyes the of his race;
the glory of a million men who for fair have died,
the splendor of self-sacrifice will 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 zouave "shoot! shoot!" the soldiers said.
then jean desprez reached out and shot ... the prussian dead!