Branger'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!"