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overtaken by night, sportsmen all loaded with game, By the old winding roadway back to the village we came,
 * But down there—what, what is that light?

One of us, a farmer, said:—'On the summit of the hill It is Lucas the shepherd, he guards my flocks by the mill,
 * His fire of vine-branches burns bright.'

A churchwarden soon answered:—'Neighbour, your pardon and leave, It's the moon which strikes on—for look, how clear is the eve—
 * The cock on our church-steeple's height.'

The proud mayor interrupted:—'No, no sir, it is not, It's a torch of rebellion,—the low knaves brew a plot;
 * Ho! Gendarmes, shoot, shoot them outright'

'All errors, good sirs,'—said the master that taught in the school, 'Look how it is moving,—if it isn't Jupiter I'm a fool,
 * It's the planet that gleams on our sight.'