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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 far from the forest paths, He was never a tree for domestic use. He had never even seen the shadow of a woodman This great oak tree, proud in his trunk. He had lived days filled with joy and peace Far from his neighbours, the worst people of all: Some malicious roses, not even bamboos, Who took delight in mocking him. From morning to evening those little shoots, Thin as fishing lines, curling like vines, Skipped around him, singing at the top of their voices The story of the oak tree and the rose. And though he was tough, as oak trees tend to be, The story did not leave him unmoved. There came a moment when, weary of being mocked, He decided to go into exile. With great effort he pulled his feet from the soil And left without looking back. But I had known him, and I am certain he suffered Leaving his ungrateful homeland behind. At the edge of the forest, the weary oak tree Made the acquaintance of two lovers. «Great oak tree, let us carve our names in you…» The great oak tree did not refuse. After they had exhausted their great sack of kisses, When their mouths were dry from too much petting, They heard, holding back their tears, The oak tree telling the story of his woes. «Great oak tree, come with us, you will find peace, Our roses know how to behave, they are not impertinent, You will like it there, Watered four times a day.» Having said that, the three of them set off together, Each lover holding one of his roots in their hands. How happy he seemed, how content he looked! The oak tree between his lovers. They planted him near their farmhouse, And that was when his disillusion began. For, instead of being watered, he had only the rain, And dogs that lifted their paws before him. They took all his acorns to feed the pigs, They made corks with his fine bark, Whenever a death sentence was pronounced, It was he who received the hanged man. Then these wicked people, true vandals, Cut him into four pieces and made a bed. And the horrible witch had so many lovers That he aged before his time. Finally, on a gloomy day, this wretched copule devoid of Any redeeming grace split him apart with an ax and made a fire. Like crate-wood, what a bitter fate, He died in a fireplace. Our parson, poor little saint, Doubts that his smoke will rise to God. What does he know, the poor fellow, who is he to say That there are no oak trees in heaven? (bis) |