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| Home → Recorded Songs → 1966 → Le grand chêne |
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| Le grand chêne | The big oak tree | ||
| Il vivait en dehors des chemins forestiers; Ce n’était nullement un arbre de métier, Il n’avait jamais vu l’ombre d’un bûcheron Ce grand chêne fier sur son tronc. Il eût connu des jours filés d’or et de soie Sans ses proches voisins, les pires gens qui soient, Des roseaux mal pensant, pas même des bambous, S’amusant à le mettre à bout. Du matin jusqu’au soir ces petit rejetons, Tout juste cann’ à pêch’, à peine mirlitons, Lui tournant tout autour chantaient, in extenso, L’histoire du chêne et du roseau. Et, bien qu’il fût en bois, (les chênes, c’est courant), La fable ne le laissait pas indifférent. Il advint que lassé d’être en but aux lazzi, Il se résolu à l’exi(l). A grand-peine il sortit ses grands pieds de son trou Et partit sans se retourner ni peu ni prou. Mais, moi qui l’ai connu, je sais qu’il en souffrit De quitter l’ingrate patri’. À l’oré’ des forêts, le chêne ténébreux À lié connaissance avec deux amoureux. « Grand chêne laisse-nous sur toi graver nos noms…» Le grand chêne n’as pas dit non. Quand ils eur’nt épuisé leur grand sac de baisers, Quand, de tant s’embrasser, leurs becs furent usés, Ils ouïrent alors, en retenant des pleurs, Le chêne contant ses malheurs. « Grand chên’, viens chez nous, tu trouveras la paix, Nos roseaux savent vivre et n’ont aucun toupet, Tu feras dans nos murs un aimable séjour, Arrosé quatre fois par jour. » Cela dit, tous les trois se mirent en chemin, Chaque amoureux tenant une racine en main. Comme il semblait content! Comme il semblait heureux ! Le chêne entre ses amoureux. Au pied de leur chaumière, ils le firent planter. Ce fut alors qu’il commença de déchanter Car, en fait d’arrosage, il n’eut rien que la plui’, Des chiens levant la patt’ sur lui. On a pris tous ses glands pour nourrir les cochons, Avec sa belle écorce on a fait des bouchons; Chaque fois qu’un arrêt de mort était rendu, C’est lui qui héritait du pendu. Puis ces mauvaises gens, vandales accomplis, Le coupèrent en quatre et s’en firent un lit. Et l’horrible mégère ayant des tas d’amants, Il vieillit prématurément. Un triste jour, enfin, ce couple sans aveu Le passa par la hache et le mit dans le feu. Comme du bois de caisse, amère destinée ! Il périt dans la cheminée. Le curé de chez nous, petit saint besogneux, Doute que sa fumé’ s’élève jusqu’à Dieu. Qu’est-c’qu’il en sait, le bougre, et qui donc lui a dit Qu’y a pas de chêne en paradis? (bis) |
Living outside the forest paths; He wasn’t at all a tree for domestic use, He never saw not even the shade of a woodman This big oak tree proud on his trunk. He had lived days filled with joy and peace Without his neighbours, the worst people of all, Some malicious roses, not even bamboos, They enjoyed making fun of him. From morning to evening these little sprouts, Looking like fish lines, just like vines, Hopping around him singing at full length The story of the oak tree and the rose. And, although he was tough, (oak trees normally are), The story did not leave him unmoved. It came a point when, tired of being mocked, He decided to go in exile. With a great effort he got his feet out of the soil And left without looking back. But I had known him, and I am sure that he suffered Leaving his ungrateful homeland. At the margin of the forest, the weary oak tree Got acquainted with two lovers. « Big oak tree let us carve our names on you…» The big oak tree did not say no. After having exhausted their big bag of kisses, When their mouth went dry for too much petting, They heard then, pushing back their tears, The oak tree recount his woes. «Great oak tree, come with us, you will find peace, Our roses know how to behave and are not impudent, You will like it there, Watered four times a day.» Having said that, the three of them started on their way, Each lover holding a root in their hand. How happy he seemed to be! How content he seemed to be! The oak tree between his lovers. They had him planted near their farmhouse, It was then that he started to be disillusioned. Because, instead of being watered, he only had the rain, And dogs that raised their paw in front of him. They took all his acorns to feed the pigs, They made corks with his fine bark, Whenever a death sentence was handed out, It was he who inherited the hanged man. Then these bad people, true vandals, Cut him down in four pieces and made a bed. And the horrible witch had so many lovers That he got prematurely old. Finally, on a sad day, this copule with no redeeming qualities Broke him into pieces with an ax and made a fire. Like wood for a crate, what a bitter fate, He died in a fireplace. Our parson, poor little saint, Doubts that his smoke will get to God. What does he know, the poor fellow, who is he to say That there are no oak trees in heaven? (bis) |