Marie
Language: French (Français)
Vous y dansiez petite fille
Y danserez-vous mère-grand
C'est la maclotte qui sautille
Toutes les cloches sonneront
Quand donc reviendrez-vous Marie
Les masques sont silencieux
Et la musique est si lointaine
Qu'elle semble venir des cieux
Oui je veux vous aimer mais vous aimer à peine
Et mon mal est délicieux
Les brebis s'en vont dans la neige
Flocons de laine et ceux d'argent
Des soldats passent et que n'ai-je
Un coeur à moi ce coeur changeant
Changeant et puis encor que sais-je
Sais-je où s'en iront tes cheveux
Crépus comme mer qui moutonne
Sais-je où s'en iront tes cheveux
Et tes mains feuilles de l'automne
Que jonchent aussi nos aveux
Je passais au bord de la Seine
Un livre ancien sous le bras
Le fleuve est pareil à ma peine
Il s'écoule et ne tarit pas
Quand donc finira la semaine
Text 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 (Grant Hicks) , "Marie", copyright © 2025, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2005-01-12
Line count: 25
Word count: 142
Marie
Language: English  after the French (Français)
You were dancing there little girl
Will you dance there grandmother
It is the maclotte that leaps about
All the bells will sound
So when will you return Marie
The masks are silent
And the music is so distant
That it seems to come from the heavens
Yes I want to love you but barely love you
And my pain is delicious
The ewes go off into the snow
Flakes of wool and those of silver
Soldiers pass by and why don't I have
A heart that is mine this changing heart
Changing and then again what do I know
Do I know where your hair will go
Frizzy like the foaming sea
Do I know where your hair will go
And your hands leaves of Autumn
That our confessions also bestrew
I passed by the bank of the Seine
An old book under my arm
The river is like my pain
It flows and does not dry up
So when will the week be done
Note for stanza 1, line 3, "maclotte": a traditional dance from the Ardennes.
Text Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2025 by Grant Hicks, (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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2025-12-16
Line count: 25
Word count: 166