Bicentenaire - Jean Ferrat

J’ai vu des ducs, j’ai vu des princes, des barons, des comtes, des rois

Des marquises la taille mince qui dansaient au son des hautbois

Dans des chteaux pleins de lumire o les ftes resplendissaient

O l’on chantait «Il Pleut Bergre» dans le velours et dans la soie

Mais dans sa chaumire, mais dans sa chaumire

Je n’ai pas vu pauvre Martin

Pauvre Martin, pauvre misre, avec sa femme et ses gamins

J’ai trembl devant la colre, des va-nu-pieds, des paysans

Renversant l’ordre millnaire dans la fureur et dans le sang

J’ai vu la terreur apparatre, les chteaux partir en fume

Les dlateurs rgner en matres dans une France sans piti

Mais dans sa chaumire, mais dans sa chaumire

Je n’ai pas vu pauvre Martin

Pauvre Martin, pauvre misre, tremblant de froid, mourant de faim

J’ai frmi pour ces grandes dames, ces beaux seigneurs si mouvants

Qui montraient tant de grandeur d’me, de noblesse de sentiments

Avant que leurs ttes grimacent au bout des piques acres

Agites par la populace des sans-culottes avins

Mais dans sa chaumire, mais dans sa chaumire

Je n’ai pas vu pauvre Martin

Pauvre Martin, pauvre misre, creusant la terre de ses mains

Deux sicles aprs quatre-vingt-neuf, il fallait oser l’inventer

A la tl, on fait du neuf en acquittant la royaut

Deux sicles aprs quatre-vingt-neuf

D’autres seigneurs veillent au grain

Et toi qui vivais comme un bњuf, ce sont tes matres que l’on plaint

six pieds sous terre, ton bicentenaire, ils l’ont enterr bel et bien

Pauvre Martin, pauvre misre, c’est toujours le peuple qu’on craint

Pauvre Martin, pauvre misre, c’est toujours le peuple qu’on craint.

I've seen dukes, I've seen princes, barons, earls, kings

Thin-waisted marquises who danced to the sound of oboes

In castles full of light where the holidays shone

Where we sang "It's Raining Bergre" in velvet and in silk

But in his cottage, but in his cottage

I haven't seen poor Martin

Poor Martin, poor misre, with his wife and his kids

I trembled in front of the anger, of the barefoot, of the peasants

Overthrowing the millennial order in fury and blood

I saw the terror appear, the castles go up in smoke

The informers reign as masters in a merciless France

But in his cottage, but in his cottage

I haven't seen poor Martin

Poor Martin, poor misre, shivering with cold, starving

I shuddered for these great ladies, these beautiful lords so moving

Who showed so much greatness of soul, nobility of feelings

Before their heads wince at the end of the acre spikes

Agitated by the populace of avian sans-culottes

But in his cottage, but in his cottage

I haven't seen poor Martin

Poor Martin, poor misre, digging the earth with his hands

Two centuries after eighty-nine, we had to dare to invent it

On tl, we're doing something new by acquitting royalty

Two centuries after eighty-nine

Other lords keep watch

And you who lived like an ox, it's your masters that we pity

six feet under, your bicentenary, they buried it well and truly

Poor Martin, poor misre, it's always the people we fear

Poor Martin, poor misre, it's always the people we fear.