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Our bugles sung truce, for the...

Language: English

Our bugles sung truce, for the night-cloud had low'r'd,
And the Sentinel  stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpow'r'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night om my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain the cornreapers sung.

Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore.
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fullness of heart.
Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the drawing of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.


Translation(s): FRE GER

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Submitted by Ferdinando Albeggiani

Authorship


Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • GER German (Deutsch) [singable] (G. Pertz) , title 1: "Des Soldaten Traum"
  • FRE French (Français) (Guy Laffaille) , title 1: "Le rêve du soldat", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Text added to the website: 2004-12-11.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:02:11
Line count: 24
Word count: 213

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Le rêve du soldat

Language: French (Français) after the English

Nos clairons ont sonné la trêve, car le nuage de la nuit s'est abaissé,
Et les étoiles sentinelles montent la garde dans le ciel,
Et des milliers sont tombés sur le sol, accablés,
Les fatigués pour dormir et les blessés pour mourir.
Pendant que je reposais cette nuit sur ma paillasse,
Près du feu de bois pour effrayer les loups et garder les morts,
Dans la mort de la nuit, j'ai vu une douce vision,
Et trois fois avant le matin j'y rêvais à nouveau.

Il me semblait que des rangées horribles du champ de bataille,
Loin, loin j'avais erré sur une piste désolée ;
C'était l'automne, et le soleil se leva sur le chemin
Vers la maison de mes pères, qui m'accueillirent.
Je volais vers les jolis champs traversés si souvent
Dans le printemps de ma vie, quand mon cœur était jeune ;
J'entendais les chèvres de mes montagnes bêler en haut,
Et je reconnus le doux chant des moissonneurs.

Alors nous portâmes des toasts avec nos coupes de vin et je jurai joyeusement
De ne jamais quitter ma maison et mes amis en larmes ;
Mes petits me donnèrent des baisers mille fois,
Et ma femme sanglota fort du fond de son cœur.
Reste, reste avec nous, prends du repos, tu es fatigué et las ;
Et volontiers leur soldat brisé par la guerre serait resté ;
Mais le chagrin revint avec le point du jour,
Et la voix dans mon oreille rêveuse disparut.


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Authorship

  • Translation from English to French (Français) copyright © 2014 by Guy Laffaille, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.

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Based on

 

Text added to the website: 2014-01-15.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:05:28
Line count: 24
Word count: 246