by Octave Pradels (1842 - 1930)
Translation Singable translation by Samuel Byrne (flourished 1889)

Mon chapeau des dimanches
Language: French (Français) 
C'était dimanche et l'on partait
En famille, cueillir la fraise;
Comme monsieur Paul en était,
Mon petit coeur tressaillait d'aise.

Bientôt, dans le bois de Clamart,
Deux par deux, la bande s'élance;
J'étais près de Paul par hasard.
Il m'offrit son bras en silence.

Ce bras frémissait sur le mien
Dans ses yeux je lisais sa fièvre.
Il voulait parler, mais sa lèvre
Tremblait, sans laisser passer rien.

J'avais ma plus belle toilette;
A dix-huit ans, être coquette,
C'est bien permis;
Pour e'trenner ses roses blanches,
Moi, j'avais mis
Mon joli chapeau des dimanches.

Une heure après, dans le grand bois,
Loin de la bande dispersée,
Je sus, pour la première fois,
Que j'étais toute sa pensée.

Ah! qu'il m'aimait! Et quel beau jour!
Les oiseaux chantaient à tue-tête;
Un long bruissement d'amour
Emplissait la nature en fête.

Il faisait chaudnous étions las.
(Voyez comme tout ça s'enchaîne!)
Nous nous assîmes sous un chêne.
Dame! moi, je ne avais pas.

Il me disait bien bas: "Je t'aime!"
Moi, Je lui répondais de même
Timidement...
Et j'avais posé sur les branches
Soigneusement
Mon joli chapeau des dimanches.

Il me disait comment un soir,
Naquit sa flamme sans pareille;
Que j'étais son tout, son espoir.
Sa levre effleurait mon oreille;

J'étais troublée et de mon coeur
Partait un petit cri d'allarme.
Je me levai, car j'avais peur;
Et je voulais rompre le charme;

Je courus prendre mon chapeau;
Mais je ne le pus, je vous jure,
Quand j'aperçus dans ma coiffure
Ce ravissant petit tableau:

Au fond, blottis, sans rien entendre,
Se becquetant de façon tendre,
A l'infini...
Deux petits oiseaux, sous les branches,
Prenaient pour nid
Mon joli chapeau des dimanches. 

Oh! vilains et charmants oiseaux,
C'est bien vous qui fûtes la cause
Qu'on gronda fort les tourtereaux
À leur rentrée à la nuit close.

Paul m'épousa; mais les époux
Gardent, malgré le temps qui vole,
Toujours, le souvenir bien doux
Des deux oiseaux maîtres d'école.

Chaque printemps, comme autrefois,
Nous voit encor sous le grand chêne,
Et Paul, pour redorer la chaîne,
N'a qu'à me redire à mivoix:

"C'est ici, mon ange ma femme,
Que ton doux coeur s'est, à ma flamme,
Abandonné,
Qu'il s'est, grâce au nid sous les branches,
Tant chiffonné
Mon joli chapeau des dimanches.

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 or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English [singable] (Samuel Byrne) , "My Sunday bonnet"


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 72
Word count: 378

My Sunday bonnet
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
One Sunday fine we all set out
To gather some fresh strawberries;
And as master Paul came with us
With joy my heart went beating fast.

Soon in the green wood of Clamart
Two by two the lot of us enter'd.
I was close to Paul by mere chance.
He offered me his arm in silence.

That arm trembled much, I could feel;
In his eyes I perceived his passion.
He desired to speak, but his lips
Both shook, so that no word could pass.

I was wearing my nicest dress;
At eighteen years to be a flirt
Is not forbid;
And to show off my new white roses,
I had put on
 my pretty and neat Sunday bonnet.

After an hour in the wide wood,
Far from the others, all dispersed, 
I knew for the very first time
That I occupied all his thoughts.

He loved me true! O happy day!
The birds sang with their strongest voices;
One long continued hum of love
Could be heard all through radiant nature.

The air was warm; we both were tired.
(Just fancy how all this enslaves us!)
We sat under an old oak tree.
My goodness! I was not aware,

He whispered low, that he loved me!
And I replied that I loved him,
With timid voice.
And I had fastened on the branches,
Most carefully
My pretty and neat Sunday bonnet.

He told me then how one fine night
His ardent love for me began,
That I was his life and his hope.
His warm lips were touching my ears;

I felt upset, and from my heart
Burst out a low cry of alarm.
I rose up quick, I was afraid;
I wished to break the fairy charm;

I hastened then to get my hat,
But 'pon my word, I could not
For there I saw a sight so lovely
I coudl not a step farther go:

In the bonnet, crouching, hearing
 nothing outside, billing like lovers 
without a pause,
Were two small birds beneath the branches,
Who used as nest
My pretty and neat Sunday bonnet!

O! naughty and sweet little birds!
It was you that caused all the scolding
Received by the poor turtle doves
When they went home late that same evening.

Paul married me; and both of us
Remember, though long years have passed,
Always the memory so dear
Of the birds that were making love.

Ev'ry springtime as in the past,
We sit again under the oaktree,
And Paul, to make the mem'ry clearer,
Has but to whisper in my ear:

"It was here, my wife, and my darling,
That your dear heart did to my passion
Give itself up,
Thanks to the nest beneath the branches,
So crumpled up
your pretty and neat Sunday bonnet!

From the Lavigne score.

Authorship

Based on

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

    [ None yet in the database ]


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 72
Word count: 462