Le petit vagabond
Ma Mère, ma Mère, l’Église est glaciale ;
Mais la taverne est tiède et amicale ;
Je sais, d’ailleurs, où l’on me traite bien.
Au ciel ce traitement ne vaudrait rien.
Mais si l’Église donnait de la bière,
Et pour notre âme un bon feu où se plaire,
Nos chants de louange ne cesseraient ;
Quant à s'en aller, nul n'y songerait.
Le Clerc y prêcherait, buvant, chantant ;
Nous serions gais comme oiseaux du printemps ;
La Feinte logerait dans cette enceinte,
Sans enfants cagneux, jeûnes, ni contraintes.
Dieu, comme un père qui se réjouit
De voir ses enfants heureux comme lui,
Ne querellerait plus Diable ou Tonneau,
Prodiguant vin, baiser, habits nouveaux.
The little Vagabond
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & warm ;
Besides I can tell where I am used well.
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the live-long day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring ;
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
And God, like a father rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel,
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
