t his version is to be preferred. He begins his version with these
words--

"Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright;
Let me attempt it with an English quill,
And take, O reader, for the deed the will."

At the end of his translation Longfellow adds:--"Jasmin, the author
of this beautiful poem, is to the South of France what Burns is to the
South of Scotland, the representative of the heart of the people,--one
of those happy bards who are born with their mouths full of birds (la
bouco pleno d'auuvelous). He has written his own biography in a poetic
form, and the simple narrative of his poverty, his struggles, and his
triumphs, is very touching. He still lives at Agen, on the Garonne, and
long may he live there to delight his native land with native songs!" It
is unnecessary to quote the poem, which is so well-known by the numerous
readers of Longfellow's poems, but a compressed narrative of the story
may be given.

The legend is founded on a popular tradition. Castel-Cuille stands upon
a bluff rock in the pretty valley of Saint-Amans, about a league from
Agen. The castle was of considerable importance many centuries ago,
while the English occupied Guienne; but it is now in ruins, though the
village near it still exists. In a cottage, at the foot of the rock,
lived the girl Marguerite, a soldier's daughter, with her brother
Paul. The girl had been betrothed to her lover Baptiste; but during his
absence she was attacked by virulent small-pox and lost her eyesight.
Though her beauty had disappeared, her love remained. She waited
long for her beloved Baptiste, but he never returned. He forsook his
betrothed Marguerite, and plighted his troth to the fairer and richer
Angele. It was, after all, only the old story.

Marguerite heard at night the song of their espousals on the eve of
the marriage. She was in despair, but suppressed her grief. Wednesday
morning arrived, the eve of St. Joseph. The bridal procession passed
along the village towards the church of Saint-Amans, singing the bridal
song. The fair and fertile valley was bedecked with the blossoms of
the apple, the plum, and the almond, which whitened the country round.
Nothing could have seemed more propitious. Then came the chorus, which
was no invention of the poet, but a refrain always sung at rustic
weddings, in accordance with the custom of strewing the bridal path with
flowers:

"The paths with buds and blossoms st