Luyện nghe bài hát Jean Desprez

Oh, ye whose hearts are resonant, and 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,
feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;
could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only may:
oh, hearken! let me try to tell the tale of desprez.
fire and sword 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 of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
and on they came with fear and flame, to 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 has fired a shot. my trumpeter is dead.
now shall they prussian vengeance know; now shall rue the day,
for by this german slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."
they drove the cowering forth, women and babes and men,
and from the last, with many a the captain chose he ten.
ten simple peasants, with toil, they stood, they knew not why,
against the grey wall of the church, hearing their cry;
hearing their wives and mothers wail, with dazed they stood.
a moment ... ready! fire! they weltered in their blood.
But there was one who unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,
who saw these men in sabots before their children's eyes;
a zouave in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,
he laughed with "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 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 finish him so quick, this 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 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 villagers who cowered in horror 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 and stole aside;
it was the little barefoot boy who came with cup
and walked up to the dying man, and gave the 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 all dark with spite:
"go shoot the brat," he snarls, "that defy our prussian might.
yet stay! i have another thought. 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 would save shall perish by his hand.
and all his kindred they 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 with fear; made him understand;
stood him by the dying man, a rifle 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 his weary head:
"shoot, son, be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.
"fire first and last, and do not for lost of hope am i;
and i murmur: vive la france! and bless you ere i die."
Half-blind with blows the boy stood there, he to swoon and sway;
then in that moment the soul of little jean desprez.
he saw the woods go sheening down, the were singing clear;
and oh! the and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!
he felt the of new mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;
o god! the paths of and toil! how precious were they now.
The summer days and summer ways, how bright with and bliss!
the autumn such a of gold ... and all must stand in this:
shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;
the zouave there with a dying glare; the blood upon the
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 "a minute more i give;
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 his eyes the glory of his race;
the glory of a men who for fair france have died,
the of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.
yet ... he was but a lad, and oh! but life was sweet ...
"your nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"shoot! shoot!" the zouave moaned; "shoot! shoot!" the soldiers said.
then jean desprez reached out and ... the prussian major dead!