The winter it is past,

The freezing frost and snow,

The springtime it has come,

And to the fields we go.

Above, upon the hilltop,

The flowers bright and blue,

The little singing birds

Their joyful songs renew.

They say in tender tones,

In language sweet and clear,

That every pretty maiden

Should have a lover dear.

But mine has gone away,

A soldier's trade to learn

In service at Bordeaux,

But he will soon return.

We go, my comrades brave,

Let's bid our girls good-by,

Give them a parting kiss,

And tell them not to cry.

With knapsack on the back,

We make a brave convoy.

We march along the road

With gallant songs of joy.

At Bordeaux, when you come,

And other girls you see,

You 'll make another choice,

And think no more of me.

When I am at Bordeaux,

Fond letters I will write,

And give them to the clouds,

That pass with bosoms white.

There will be within them,

In letters deep and clear,

That I will always be

Your lover true and dear.

But the circumstances are not always so cheerful nor the songs so gay. There is a tragedy, when, moved by an irresistible longing, the unfortunate conscript has deserted the ranks, been captured by his comrades, and condemned to suffer the penalty of his weakness in a shameful death. The old songs have many subjects of that kind, whose memory lingers, although the penalty for desertion is now less severe. One of them is Le Deserteur, whose deeply plaintive air, and the melopoeism of its verse, as well as its simple tragedy, have kept it alive.