|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
FOLK-SONGS OF LOWER BRITTANY. 217
THE WILL OF THE OLD MARE.
Between Pontrieaux and Kerlouet Is dead an old mare.
She cried, the old mare, To have her shoes pulled off.
She cried loud enough to split her voice, — Pull the nails from my sabots.
It is eighteen months, without falsehood, Since I have been in a stable.
If it is not in the great barnyard of Kerlouet, There I have often lodged.
I bequeath my patience To him, Oliver le Judic.
Which he has cruelly proved this year, In that he has lost his wife.
In that this year his wife is dead.
To live without one's half is not a pleasant thing.
I pray to give the hairs of my tail, To him, Pierre Perrot.
That he may make a light fly-flap
To keep the flies from the horses in summer.