"The noble Duke of Brittany
has, for his murderous fighting,
sent summonses from Nantes to Mortagne,
over the plains and up in the hills,
calling his warriors to service.

They are barons whose arms
adorn forts surrounded by moats,
brave men who have grown old in battle,
equerries and men-at-arms.
One of them is my fiancé.

He has gone off to Aquitaine
as a kettledrummer, and yet
people take him for a captain
just on seeing his haughty face
and his doublet of glittering gold.

Since he left, I have shaken with dread,
I have said, joining his fate to mine:
"O Saint Brigitte, my patroness, 
watch over his guardian angel 
to ensure he is always kept safe!"

I have said to our priest: "My lord,
pray well for all our soldiers."
And, as we know that he wishes it,
I have lit three wax candles
on the shrine of Saint Gildas.

In Notre-Dame de Lorette
I promised, in my dark sorrow,
to fasten onto my bodice,
hidden from all indiscreet eyes,
the shells which mark me as a pilgrim.

He, being absent,  has not been able
to console my family with amorous pledges.
For the carrying of tender messages
a female vassal has no page-boys,
a male vassal has no squires.

Today he is to return from the war
along with my lord the Duke.
He is now not a vulgar lover;
I raise my head which I bowed in the past,
and my pride is the pride of happiness!

The Duke is bringing back in triumph
his flag which was crumpled in the camps.
Come along all of you to the old gate
and see his brilliant company pass,
and the prince, and my fiancé!

Come see for his festive day
his horse bedecked in cloths:
under their weight he neighs and stops,
then marches forward, shaking his head
with a crown of  red feathers!

Oh sisters, you're taking so long dressing,
come near to my conqueror and see
those shining kettledrums
which in his ever-trembling hands
ring out, and make the heart leap!

Come especially to see him 
dressed in the cloak I embroidered.
How handsome he will be! He's the one I love!
He is wearing like a diadem
his helmet, adorned with horsehair.

The sacrilegious Gypsy woman,
drew me yesterday behind a pillar
and told me (May God preserve us!)
that in the processional band
one kettle-drummer will be missing.

But I have prayed so much that I hope!
even though, pointing out to me
a sepulchre, her dark den,
the viper-eyed old woman said:
"I expect you there tomorrow!"

Let's hurry! No more dark thoughts!
Those are drums that I hear.
Here we see the ladies crowded in,
the purple tents pitched,
and the flowers, and the fluttering flags,

The procession sways forward on two ranks:
first come the heavy-treading pikemen,
then, under the waving standards
the barons, dressed in silk,
with their velvet hats.

Here are the priests in their robes,
the heralds riding white chargers.
All, in memory of their forebears,
wear their masters' escutcheons
painted on the steel corselets.

Admire the Persian armour
of the Templars, feared by hell itself;
and under the long halberds
the archers from Lausanne,
dressed in thick hides and armed with iron.

The duke is not far off. His banners
float among the knights.
Some ensigns taken prisoner,
full of shame, are the last to pass...
Oh sisters! here come the drummers...!

She spoke, and her roving gaze,
searched down (alas!) among the serried ranks
Then, in the indifferent crowd
she fell, cold and dying...
The drummers had passed.