Luyện nghe bài hát Jean Desprez

Oh, ye hearts are resonant, and ring to war's romance,
ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of france,
a lad and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
could feel within his 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.
fire and sword the teuton horde was ravaging the land,
and there was darkness and despair, grim death on every
red of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;
the of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
and on they with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,
until they reached the croft, the home of jean desprez.
"rout out the one and all!" the uhlan captain said.
"behold! some has fired a shot. my trumpeter is dead.
now shall they vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
for by sacred german slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
they drove the cowering 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, hearing their cry;
hearing wives and mothers wail, with faces 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 death was nigh,
he laughed joy: "ah! here is where i settle ere i die."
he clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and ...
a shot! beside his ten the uhlan captain fell.
dragged the wounded zouave out; their rage was like a flame.
with bayonets they him down, until their major came.
a blond, full-blooded man he was, and of eye;
he stared to see 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 they nailed the zouave there
and there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his
"water! a single drop!" he moaned, but how they at him,
and mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his grow dim;
and as in of death with blood his lips were wet,
the prussian major laughed, and lit a cigarette.
But mid the white-faced villagers who in horror by,
was one who saw the woeful sight, who the woeful cry:
"water! one little drop, i beg! for love of who died ..."
it was the little jean desprez who turned and aside;
it was the barefoot 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; tear him fast away.
the prussian major around; no longer is he gay.
his are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:
"go shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our might.
yet stay! i another 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 dying dog he fain save shall perish by his hand.
and all his they shall see, and all shall curse his name
who bought his life at such a cost, the price of and shame."
brought the boy, wild-eyed with 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 major puffed his cigarette, in his eye.
and then the dying zouave heard, and raised his weary
"shoot, son, 'twill be the for both; shoot swift 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."
Half-blind with the boy stood there, he seemed to swoon and sway;
then in that moment woke the soul of jean desprez.
he saw the woods go sheening down, the 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 soft fanned his brow;
o god! the of peace and toil! how precious were they now.
The summer days and ways, how bright with hope and bliss!
the autumn such a dream of gold ... and all stand in this:
this shining rifle in his hand, that all around;
the zouave there with a dying glare; the blood upon the
the brutal faces round him ringed, the eyes aflame;
prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"make and shoot," the major sneered; "a minute more i give;
a minute more to your friend, if you yourself would live."
They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and face;
they did not see within his the glory of his race;
the glory of a men who for fair france have died,
the splendor of self-sacrifice will not be denied.
yet ... he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was ...
"your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he a voice repeat.
"shoot! shoot!" the dying zouave moaned; "shoot! shoot!" the said.
then jean desprez reached out and shot ... the major dead!