Ulysse -

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage

Ou comme cestuy qui conquit la toison

Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison

Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge !

Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison

Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison

Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup davantage?

Plus me plaît le séjour qu’ont bâti mes aïeux

Que des palais Romains le front audacieux

Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l’ardoise fine:

Plus mon Loir gaulois, que le Tibre latin

Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin

Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur angevine

Mais quand reverrai-je, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison

Mais quand reverrai-je?

Mais quand reverrai-je, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison

Mais quand reverrai-je?

J’ai traversé les mers à la force de mes bras

Seul contre les Dieux, perdu dans les marais

Retranché dans une cale, et mes vieux tympans percés

Pour ne plus jamais entendre les sirènes et leurs voix

Nos vies sont une guerre où il ne tiens qu'à nous

De nous soucier de nos sorts, de trouver le bon choix

De nous méfier de nos pas, et de toute cette eau qui dort

Qui pollue nos chemins, soit disant pavés d’or

Mais quand reverrai-je, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison

Mais quand reverrai-je?

Mais quand reverrai-je, de mon petit village

Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison

Mais quand reverrai-je?

Mais quand reverrai-je?

Mais quand reverrai-je?

Mais quand reverrai-je?

Happy who, like Odysseus, has made a beautiful journey

Or like cestuy who conquered the fleece

And then returned, full of use and reason

Live between his parents the rest of his age!

When will I see again, alas, from my little village

Smoke the chimney, and in what season

Will I see again the enclosure of my poor house

Who is a province to me, and much more?

The more I like the stay that my ancestors built

Than Roman palaces bold brow

More than hard marble I like fine slate:

More my Gallic Dormouse than the Latin Tiber

More my little Liré, than the Palatine Hill

And more than the sea air the Angevin sweetness

But when will I see again, from my little village

Smoke the chimney, and in what season

But when will I see you again?

But when will I see again, from my little village

Smoke the chimney, and in what season

But when will I see you again?

I crossed the seas by the strength of my arms

Alone against the Gods, lost in the swamps

Entrenched in a hold, and my old eardrums pierced

To never hear the sirens and their voices again

Our lives are a war where it's up to us

To care about our fates, to find the right choice

To beware of our steps, and all this sleeping water

Who pollutes our paths, supposedly paved with gold

But when will I see again, from my little village

Smoke the chimney, and in what season

But when will I see you again?

But when will I see again, from my little village

Smoke the chimney, and in what season

But when will I see you again?

But when will I see you again?

But when will I see you again?

But when will I see you again?