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Au Ministere de la Guerre On le r'porta comme perdu. On se r'noncait retrouver sa trace, Quand un matin subitement, On le vit reparaetre sur la place, L'Colonel toujours en avant. That's the way she rolls her r's. Am I like her? He. No, but I object when you go on like an actress and sing stuff of that kind. Where in the world did you pick up the Chanson du Colonel? It isn't a drawing-room song.
Even when the modern languages entered into the inheritance of Latin and Greek, verse held to its ancestral privileges, and the brief tale took the form of the ballad, and the longer narrative called itself a chanson de geste.
As the son of a dramatist and the nephew of a popular composer, he had easy access to the stage. He began as the librettist-in-ordinary to M. Offenbach, for whom he wrote Ba-ta-clan in 1855, and later the Chanson de Fortunio, the Pont des Soupirs and Orphée aux Enfers.
The good merchant was refreshed by sleep and by his morning's meal; and when he beheld his wife and daughter thus secure by his side, and the hackney laden with his treasure close behind him, his heart was light in his bosom, and he carolled a chanson as he went, and the woodlands echoed to his song.
"My friend, you failed us last night at the Cercle, and yet we waited for you long." A hoarse, hollow voice very measured and slow, as if carefully disciplined to repress groans yet every now and then there will come a modulation, that shows how rich and cheery it might have been when trolling a chanson
Widely known are "Sans Toi," "Mignon," "Vos Yeux," "Say Yes," "Chanson de Ma Vie," "La Fermière," "Valse des Libellules," and many others. Her favourite poets are Victor Hugo and Ella Wheeler Wilcox, a rather strange mixture. Her only attempt in larger form is the operetta "Elle et Lui." She is a great friend of Mme. Calvé, who is especially fond of her songs.
He heard the bells in the church ringing the village commerce done it was nine o'clock. The picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when he had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to Annette and singing a little Breton chanson: "Parvondt varbondt anan oun, Et die don la lire! Parvondt varbondt anan oun, Et die don la, la!"
"Will you sing Stradella's 'Chanson d'Eglise' or will you sing Schubert's 'Ave Maria'? Nothing is more beautiful than that." "I will sing the 'Ave Maria." The nun sat down to play it, but she had not played many bars when Evelyn interrupted her. "The intention of the single note, dear Sister, the octave you are striking now, has always seemed to me like a distant bell heard in the evening.
Among the stories of world-wide renown, not the least stirring are those that have gathered about the names of national heroes. The Æneid, the Nibelungenlied, the Chanson de Roland, the Morte D'Arthur, they are not history, but they have been as National Anthems to the races, and their magic is not yet dead.
The Middle Ages, so full of fashions in literary matters, possessed no classics; the minnesingers knew nothing of the stern old Teutonic war songs; the meistersängers had forgotten the minnesingers; the trouvères and troubadours knew nothing of "The Chanson de Roland," and Villon knew nothing of them; only in Italy, where the Middle Ages came to an end and the Renaissance began with the Lombard league, was there established a tradition of excellence, with men like Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, handed down from generation to generation; even as, while in the north there came about the strange modification which substituted the French of Rabelais for the French of Chrestien de Troyes, the German of Luther for the German of Wolfram von Eschenbach, the Italian language, from Ciullo d'Alcamo almost to Boiardo and Lorenzo dei Medici, remained virtually identical.