BÉRANGER'S “MA VOCATION”

Misery is my lot,

Poverty and pain;

Ill was I begot,

Ill must I remain;

Yet the wretched days

One sweet comfort bring,

When God whispering says,

“Sing, O singer, sing!”

Chariots rumble by,

Splashing me with mud;

Insolence see I

Fawn to royal blood;

Solace have I then

From each galling sting

In that voice again,—

“Sing, O singer, sing!”

Cowardly at heart,

I am forced to play

A degraded part

For its paltry pay;

Freedom is a prize

For no starving thing;

Yet that small voice cries,

“Sing, O singer, sing!”

I was young, but now,

When I'm old and gray,

Love — I know not how

Or why — hath sped away;

Still, in winter days

As in hours of spring,

Still a whisper says,

“Sing, O singer, sing!”

Ah, too well I know

Song's my only friend!

Patiently I'll go

Singing to the end;

Comrades, to your wine!

Let your glasses ring!

Lo, that voice divine

Whispers, “Sing, oh, sing!”