Monique Morelli - Gaston Couté - Washday

Original Title: "Jour de lessive"
Text: Gaston Couté
His poems were first published in 1928 after his death.
Year: 1963

I left this very morning
Still drunk from the night but taken
of what's like an extreme digust
Spitting my farewell to Paris
And here I am, my good woman,
Yes, bust like four coins
My laundry is dirty so is my soul...
Here I am home!

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

Here is that linen on which dripped many
And many times a bitter wine,
Where bitches with painted lips
have wiped their mouth of hell
And here my soul, darker
Of the same blemishes - Alas!
Than the front of my shirt
Grey, pink and lilac...

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

At the bottom of the cuvier where we sow,
among the water, the ash from the oven,
Let all my bohemian linen
rest for a whole day...
And at last let my soul, alike
to that saddening display,
Among your soul - Oh good old woman!
Rest a moment...

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

Just like the linen confides
Its shame to the sweetnes of water
When I'll have recounted my life
Miserable of awful bastard,
Like one rinces in the fountain
The linen coming out of the cuvier
Mother, water my soul in sorrow
With a little mercy!

My poor mother is on washday
Mother, Mother
Mother, your bad guy is coming
At the right time!...

And when you will come to spread out
The linen parfumed of yellow flag
All white among the tender whiteness
Of the hedge where the month of May is blooming
I want to see my soul, still pure
In spite of its long sleep
In pain and filth,
Come back to life under the Sun!...

Gabriel Yacoub's version:

Gabriel Yacoub - The Luzon bleeding-heart (The stabbed dove)

Original title: "Colombe Poignardée"
Song written for the soundtrack of the movie "Le peuple migrateur"
Year: 2001

White queen winged with black
Crane and its groats
The starlings' clan

Four long-flight ducks
Three woodpigeons
Two turtledoves
One partridge
Who comes who goes who flies

And there are screams*
there are twitters²
there are gobbles³
there are squawks
there are cackles
there are hisses
there are quacks*
there are screeches
there are talks with the wind

Bleeding-heart dove
Talks with the wind
Mallard, Northern pintail, northern shoveler, Eider
kingfisher, king fisher

Four long-flight ducks
Three woodpigeons
Two turtledoves
One partridge
Who comes who goes who flies

The big crow of the seas
Took my soul away
Because at everyone's neck
Hangs one's bird

* "Margoter" or "Margauder" in french is the scream of the Quail, same goes for "carcailler"
² for the swallow
³ for the gander (male of the goose)

Malicorne - The Deserter - The Leave

Traditional song
Original Title: "Le Congé (Le Déserteur)"
Year: 1977

It's been eight years that I am in the army
Without ever having receveid my leave
It's been eight years I am in the army
Without ever having received my leave

The desire took hold of me
to come back to the country without leave
to come back to the country without leave

On my way, made a sad encounter
Three grenadiers captured me and took me away
On my way, made a sad meeting
Three grenadiers captured me and took me away

Have attached my handcuffs nastily
Right to Bordeaux in prison lead me
Right to Bordeaux in prison lead me

Ah, does one have for the love of a brunette
To be reduced to those cursed dungeons!
Ah, does one have for the love of a brunette
To be reduced to those cursed dungeons!

To be reduced to sleeping on straw
To eat black bread and drink nothing else but water
To eat black bread and drink nothing else but water

But when the beauty heard those words
But nights and days goes find her lover
But when the beauty heard those words
But nights and days goes find her lover

Telling him "My lover, take courage"
She will save you, the one who loves you so much
She will save you, the one who loves you so much

I will go talk, to your Captain
Your captain, your commandant as well
I will go talk, to your Captain
Your captain, your commandant as well

While telling them to soften your sentence
For some money, give me back my lover
For some money, give me back my lover

Keep, beauty, your gold and your money
To make war have it at their leisure
Keep, beauty, your gold and your money
To make war have it at their leasure

I have to be court-martialled
And then after, I'll be put to death
And then after, I'll be put to death

The one who will kill me, it'll be my comrade
The one who will kill me, it'll be my comrade
He will blindfold me with a blue handkerchief
He will make me die without making me suffer too much

Gabriel Yacoub - The rewarded wooer - How could you want for a person to sing?

Traditional song (1555)
Original Title: "Le soupirant récompensé/Comment vouloir qu'une personne chante?"
Text: Roland de Lassus
Year: 1976

How could you want for a person to sing
When he does not have his heart free?
Let sing those whom are content with love
And leave me, and leave me in my misfortune cry!
And leave me, and leave me in my misfortune cry!

Cry my eyes, cry my fatal fate
I lost everything when losing my Iris
Cruel destiny take what I have left
And give me back, and give me back what you took from me
And give me back, and give me back what you took from me

Take my heart and give me yours:
It's yours, I do not claim anything no more;
But if I learn that you love another
Straight away, straight away, I will take mine back
Straight away, straight away, I will take mine back

What will be required, beautiful Iris, to please you?
Is my blood required? It's ready to flow.
But if my blood can not satisfy you,
Is my death required? Is my death required? You only have to speak
Is my death required? Is my death required? You only have to speak

After death, you will cry, I swear;
You will love me, it won't be time no more.
You will walk over my grave
While regretting, while regretting the most faithful lover.
While regretting, while regretting the most faithful lover.

Malicorne - Victor Hugo - The Timpanist's Bride

Original Title: "La fiancée du timbalier"
Text: Victor Hugo
Year: 1977

My Lord the duke of Brittany
Has, for the murderous combats,
Summoned from Nantes to Mortagne
In the plain and on the mountain
All of his barrons and vassals' warriors.

Those are barrons whose coat of arms
deck out forts encircled with a pit
Valiant knights aged in the alarms
Squires, men at arms;
One of them is my fiancé

He has left for Aquitaine
As a timpanist and yet
He is taken for a captain
Just seeing his haughty look
and his pourpoint of dazzling gold!

I have told to our abbot: - Your grace,
Pray well for all our soldiers!
And, like it's known he wants it,
I have burned three candles of wax
On the shrine of Saint Gildas.

He is due today from the war
to come back with my lord;
It's not a common lover anymore
I raise a forehead formerly lowered
And my pride is happiness!

The triumphant duke brings us back
His flag in the camps crumpled
Come all under the old gate
To see the sparkling escort go through
And the prince and my fiancé!

My sisters, so slow to attire yourself in
Come see near my victor
Those gleaming kettledrums
Those under his always trembling hand
Ring and make the heart spring up!

Come most of all to see himself
Under the coat I have embroidered.
How beautiful he will be! It's him I love!
He wears like a diadem
His helmet flooded with horse hair!

On two ranks the procession ripples
First the pikemen marching heavily
Then, under the banner being unfurled
The barrons, in silk robe,
With their velvet hats

Here comes the chasubles of the priests
The heralds on a white steed.
All of them, in memory of the ancesters,
Bear the escutcheon of their masters
Painted on their steel corselet

Admire the persian armor
Of the templars, feared by hell;
And, under the lengthy partisan
The archers arrived from Lausanne
Dressed with buffalo, armed with iron.

The duke is not far, his banners
floats among the knights;
A few captive ensigns
Shameful, pass the last ones...
My sisters! Here comes the timpanists...

She says and her wandering sight
Plunges in the squeezed ranks
Then in the indifferent crowd
She fell cold and dieing...
The timpanists were gone past.