Georges Brassens - In the woods of my heart

Original Title: "Au bois de mon coeur"
Year: 1957

In the woods of Clamart there are some little flowers,
there are some little flowers,
there are some friends in the woods of my heart,
in the woods of my heart.

At the back of my courtyard I'm famous
I'm famous
for having a disreputable heart
A disreputable heart

In the woods of Vincennes there are some little flowers,
There are some little flowers,
there are some friends in the woods of my heart,
in the woods of my heart.

When my cask runs out of wine
When my cask runs out of wine
In my cask,
They aren't afraid of drinking my water,
Of drinking my water.

In the woods of Meudon there are some little flowers,
There are some little flowers,
There are friends in the woods of my heart,
In the woods of my heart.

They go with me to the town hall,
They go with me to the town hall,
To the town hall,
Everytime I get married,
That I get married.

In the woods of Saint-Cloud there are some little flowers,
There are some little flowers,
There are friends in the woods of my heart,
In the woods of my heart.

Every time I die faithfully,
Faithfully,
They follow my funeral procession,
My funeral procession.

Some little flowers
Some little flowers
In the woods of my heart
In the woods of my heart

Live:

Jacques Brel - Sorry's

Original Title: "Pardons"
Year: 1957

Sorry for that girl
We made cry
Sorry for that gaze
That we leave laughing

Sorry for that face
That a tear changed
Sorry for those houses
Where someone waits for us

And then for all those words
Which we call love words
And that we use
By way of currency
For all those oaths
Which died at daybreak
Sorry for the never's
Sorry for the always's

Sorry for the hamlet
Which never sing
Sorry for the villages
Which have been forgotten

And sorry for the cities
Where noone know one another
Sorry for the countries
Made of non-commissioned officers

Sorry to be of those
Who do not care about anything
And for not having
tried everyday

And then sorry still
And then sorry most of all
For never knowing
Who has to forgive us

Georges Brassens - The nuptial march

Original Title: "La marche nuptiale"
Year: 1957

Marriage for love, marriage for money
I have seen all kind of people getting married
People of low source, and men in high places
Supposed hairdresser, so-called notaries

Even though I would live up to the end of times
I'd always keep the happy memory
Of the day of poor wedding
when my father and my mother
Went to marry in front of Mr the Mayor

It's in a ox cart if one has to speak frankly
Pulled by the friends, Pushed by the parents,
That the old lovers made their nuptials
After a long time of love, a long time of betrothal

Nuptial procession outside of the ordinary order
The crowd look covetously us with a protuberant eye
We were contemplated by the futile world,
Which had never seen a wedding of that kind.

Here comes the wind which blows, taking away, heartbreak,
My father's hat and the altar boys
Here comes the rain which falls while well weighing its drops
As if to prevent the wedding at all cost

I will never forget the bride in tears
Rocking, like a doll, her big flower bouquet...
Me, to console her, me, with all my haughtiness,
On my harmonica, playing the great organs.

All the boys of honour, showing their fist to the sky
Were shouting, by Jupiter, the wedding goes on
By the disparaged men, by the annoyed gods
The wedding goes on and long live the bride

Jacques Brel - I appeal

Original Title: "J'en appelle"
Year: 1957

I appeal to the houses crushed with light
I appeal to the loves that are sun by the rivers
To the blue bursting of the mornings of spring
To the pretty strength of the girls who are twenty-year-old
To the certain coolness of an old well of the desert
To the star which waits the old man who is getting lost
So that rises from us and stronger than a desire
The incredible desire to want to build oneself
While desiring ourselves weak rather than proud
While desiring ourselves cowards rather than horrendous

I appeal to your laugh that you crunch from the sun
I appeal to your cry alike to none other
To the joyful silence which speaks softly
To those words that we say just by looking at one another
To the heavy hand of our sincere love
To our twenties found by everything they hope
So that rises from us and stronger than a desire
The incredible desire to want to build oneself
While preferring rather than the useless glory
And the deep happiness and then the tranquil joy
I appeal to the houses crushed with light
I appeal to your cry alike to none other

Edith Piaf - The Crowd

Original Title: "La foule"
Year: 1957 (adapted from an Argentinian song of 1936)

I see again the city celebrating and frenzied
Suffocating under the sun and the joy
And I hear the music, the shouts, the laughs
which burst and bounce all around me

Distraught among those people who bump into me
Scatterbrained, distraugth I stay there
When suddenly I turn around, He steps back
And he crowd just throws me in his arms

Carried away by the crowd which drags us, carry us away
Crushed one against the other we only form a single body
And the stream effortlessly pushes us both chained up
And leaves us both radiant, intoxicated and happy

Carried away by the crowd which rushes forward and dances
A wild farandole our two hands remained united
And at times lifted up our two bodies embraced take off
And come down again, radiant, intoxicated and happy

And the joy splashed by his smile,
pierces me and splash back up deep inside me
But suddenly I utter a shout among the laughs
When the crowd comes to tear him away from my arms

Carried away by the crowd which drags us, carry us away,
Moves us away from one another, I fight and I struggle
But the sound of my voice suffocates in other people's laughs
And I scream of pain, of fury and of rage and I cry

And dragged by the crowd which rushes forward and dances
A wild farandole I am carried far away
And I clench my fists, cursing the crowd that is stealing from me
The man that it had given me and who I have never found again.

Jacques Bertin - Baudelaire - Invitation to travel

Sang by J. Bertin
Text: Charles Baudelaire (1857)
Year: 1957 (Ferré's version), 1985 (Bertin's version)

Keith Waldrop's translation (not mine)

Child, Sister, think how sweet to go out there and live together! To love at leisure, love and die in that land that resembles you! For me, damp suns in disturbed skies share mysterious charms with your treacherous eyes as they shine through tears.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

Gleaming furniture, polished by years passing, would ornate our bedroom; rarest flowers, their odors vaguely mixed with amber; rich ceilings; deep mirrors; an Oriental splendor—everything there would address our souls, privately, in their sweet native tongue.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

See on these canals those sleeping boats whose mood is vagabond; it’s to satisfy your every desires that they come from the world’s end. —Setting suns reclothe fields, the canals, the whole town, in hyacinth and gold; the world falling asleep in a warm light.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

My translation:

My child, my sister, think about the sweetness of going out there and live together!
To love at leisure, to love and die in that land that resembles you!
The wet suns of those scrambled skies for my mind have the charms
So mysterious of your treacherous eyes shining through their tears.

There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

Gleaming furniture, polished by the years, would ornate our bedroom;
the rarest flowers, mixing their odors with the vague scents of the amber
The rich ceilings; the deep mirrors; the Oriental splendor
everything there would speak to the soul, in secret, in their sweet native tongue.

There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

See on these canals sleeping those boats whose mood is vagabond;
it’s to satisfy your every desires that they come from the world’s end.
—Setting suns embellish the fields, the canals, the whole town,
in hyacinth and gold; the world is falling asleep in a warm light.
There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

Léo Ferré's version: