Luyện nghe bài hát Jean Desprez

Oh, ye whose are resonant, and ring to war's romance,
ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of france,
a lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when came,
feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes
oh, hearken! let me try to tell the tale of desprez.
With fire and sword the teuton horde was the land,
and there was darkness and despair, grim death on hand;
red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's abyss;
the wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and did they miss.
and on they came with fear and flame, to and loot and slay,
they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of jean desprez.
"rout out the village one and all!" the uhlan said.
"behold! some has fired a shot. my trumpeter is dead.
now they prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
for by this sacred slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
drove 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, they not why,
against the grey wall of the church, their children cry;
hearing their and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.
a moment only ... ready! fire! they weltered in blood.
But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the cries,
who saw these men in sabots fall before children's eyes;
a zouave in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
he laughed 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 out; their rage was like a flame.
with bayonets they pinned him down, until major came.
a blond, man he was, and arrogant of eye;
he stared to see with shattered skull his favorite 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 zouave
and was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;
"water! a drop!" he moaned, but how they jeered at him,
and mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight dim;
and as in agony of death with blood his 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 the woeful cry:
"water! one little drop, i beg! for love of christ who ..."
it was the little jean desprez who turned and aside;
it was the little boy who came with cup abrim
and walked up to the dying man, and gave the to him.
A roar of rage! they seize the boy; they him fast away.
the major swings around; no longer is he gay.
his teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with
"go shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our might.
yet stay! i have another thought. i'll kindly be, and
quick! give the lad a charged, and set him squarely there,
and bid him shoot, and to kill. haste! make him understand
the dying dog he fain would save shall by his hand.
and all his they shall see, and all shall curse his name
who bought his life at a cost, the price of death and shame."
They brought the boy, wild-eyed fear; they made him understand;
they stood him by the dying man, a 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 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: la france! and bless 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 woods go sheening down, the larks were singing
and oh! the and sounds 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 were they now.
The summer days and summer ways, how bright with and bliss!
the such a dream of gold ... and all must stand in this:
this shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all
the zouave with a dying glare; the blood upon the ground;
the brutal faces round him ringed, the eyes aflame;
that prussian bully standing by, as if he a game.
"make haste and shoot," the sneered; "a minute more i give;
a minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself live."
They saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
they did not see within his eyes the of his race;
the of a million 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 life was ...
"your nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"shoot! shoot!" the dying zouave "shoot! shoot!" the soldiers said.
then jean reached out and shot ... the prussian major dead!