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!