A Bit of (Pas de Deux): Translating Jacques Brel

When I moved to New York City in 1983, one of the first things I did was go to the Alliance Française in search of words. I was hungry for them but they were hard to find then.

I had recently seen a regional production of the revue “Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris,” a title that had been floating vaguely in my consciousness for a while. Like many Americans, I fell hard for the songs in their English translations by playwright Eric Blau and songwriter Mort Shuman. Not only were the melodies lovely and haunting, the lyrics were funny, irreverent and passionate, sometimes all at once. Many songs were complete short stories narrated by different personae: Jackie the singer who longs to be “cute, cute, cute in a stupid-ass way,” the bulls that get bored of the bullfight, the mysterious lover calling out across Flanders to a girl named Marieke. What got me even more was the tenderness nestled amid all that biting wit. “The Old Folks” (originally Les Vieux) is still the only song I know that captures the way the world grows smaller and smaller when death nears; I learned later that Brel was in his thirties when he wrote it, and that la tendresse was the quality he prized most.

My college coursework had been approximately three parts English to one part French. So French was not home exactly, but a place I knew and loved. I was ready to move on to the originals sung by Brel himself. I bought up all the LPs I could find and suddenly had a whole new canon to explore. Some songs disappointed me—the early ones tended to be schmaltzy and some later ones too bitter, especially on the subject of unfaithful women. But there were dozens I couldn’t get enough of, mostly from the time of his great outpouring in the 60s that began with Quand on n’a que l’Amour, and from his final offerings before he died of lung cancer in 1978, at age 49. (Brel had quit performing in 1966 at the top of his game, launched a semi-successful movie career, and then retired to sail around the world, settling on the same island where Gauguin went to paint.)

Because most of the records were cheap reissues with no lyrics, I faced many frustrations. I had only my ear to decipher the words, and they were often moving very quickly (see La Valse à Mille Temps and Vesoul). In his drinking song La Bière, for instance, there was a phrase that sounded like “oil and Spiegel.” What the heck was that? And in J’Arrive, what was a crise-en-theme?

The Alliance Française library came through. I still have the precious lyrics I jotted in a notepad that day, all five verses of La Biere. Oil and Spiegel, it turned out, was Uylenspiegel. It would take many years and the creation of the Internet for me to learn that Uylenspiegel was a trickster figure from German folklore, and that crise-en-theme was chrysantheme, the flower.

The more I heard Brel interpret his own songs in what is invariably described as his “sturdy baritone,” the more the revue and its uneven translations faded away. For instance, the song “Carousel,” with its trippy, repetitious carnival lyrics, turned out to be entirely different from the song that birthed it, La Valse à Mille Temps, about a romance as viewed through a lifetime of waltzes. The pop world committed travesties, too: Ne Me Quitte Pas, a desperate plea from a jilted lover with lines like “I’ll tell you a tale of the king who died from not having met you” became the generic love lyric “If You Go Away” (I’ll make you a day like no day has been or will be again). Le Moribond, a dying man’s farewell to the important people in his life (adieu Antoine… you were more solid than ennui), shape-shifted into the sappiest hit of 1973: “Seasons in the Sun” (We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun).

My obsession simmered along in the background for years. The way friends of mine swear by Leonard Cohen or Joni Mitchell or Stephen Sondheim, Brel was the composer/poet/singer (the French say chansonnier) I always came back to.

Then a few years ago, when my husband took up singing, my life took an unexpected turn in a musical direction. Suddenly we found ourselves in the dim back rooms where cabaret is made, in the company of professional singers and piano players. I’m no singer or musician, but I yearned to offer something more to this world than the sound of my clapping hands.

So I sat down one day and translated Le Plat Pays, Brel’s mournful anthem to his native low lands, just to see if I could. I set ambitious goals: to be as true as possible to the original images, meanings, mood and rhyme scheme, while creating a lyric that fits the meter and stands on its own in singable, and maybe even beautiful, English.

Three parts English to one part French turns out to be a pretty good ratio for translating. The French, after all, is already written, and when I bump up against a confusing bit of syntax or when I sense I’m missing a nuance, I have the helpful website Linguée and French friends to help me. It’s the language you’re translating into which needs to be vast with allusion and idiom and synonym and pun—all the secrets only a native speaker knows. English has the advantage here, with its trunks full of words from other languages, and there’s nothing I enjoy more than lifting the lids and digging around to say, convey, express, articulate, give voice to, tell, assert, ace or nail the essence of the original. As for innate lilt and grace and sonority—not to mention easy rhyming, what with all those -eurs, -ors and –ances at the end of words—the advantage goes to French.

Translating is a quiet, private activity, but it often feels clamorous with so many forces vying for my attention. Sometimes it feels not all that different from other titles I hold: teacher, mother, editor, committee chair—all jobs that require a love of problem solving and an ability to work constructively with many parties. One particularly important party is the Brel Foundation, the gatekeeper of the songs, and, over several years of correspondence, they have been encouraging and supportive.

Often it’s the rhyme that proves the most demanding master. Le Gaz—one of my favorites, a sexy, funny story of a utility worker walking in on a prostitute—has two separate rhyme schemes, like many Brel songs. The first requires six rhymes in a row within each verse and the second requires a rhyme for the title word toward the end of all five verses. I had to take a few liberties—among them, the phonograph that was originally playing jazz (to rhyme with gaz) is now playing a bebop score (to rhyme with “door to door”).

Because French words usually put the accent on the final syllable, often the word that would be most true to the original just can’t be made to fit. I had to transform those chrysanthemums into lilies, which made sense thematically anyway, because the song is about attending funerals (I learned that in France mums are the flowers associated with death). I also bump up against archaic references and phrases that are bawdy in French but just icky in English (the would-be Latin lover in Knokke-le-Zoute Tango goes home with la bitte sous le bras, or “his dick under his arm”; I used “half-cocked”). In Les Remparts de Varsovie the little sausage dog is named Byzance, or Byzantium, which is probably hilarious in French but just felt strange and unrhymable in English, so I took the liberty of renaming him Dot. Brel also invented words; in La Cathédrale the cathedral has been débondieurisé; break it into syllables (dé-bon-dieu-risé) and you realize it’s had the good lord removed from it, which in Brel’s playbook is always an improvement. My solution: desanctimonified (de-sanctimony-fied).

I invert phrases, I come at ideas sideways. Images I can’t squeeze into one verse might get carried into another that has a few free beats. In Jef (which in the revue became “No Love You’re Not Alone,” about a woman trying to comfort her lover) there is a guitar, a hobo trying to comfort his depressed friend, and a yearning for both America and childhood, and Brel is always lamenting the loss of what he called le far West, so I had the hobo offer to sing his friend a “cowboy lullaby.” The worst trouble spots need a whole separate essay: Brel’s reflexively chauvinistic mid-20^th-century ways. The original version of “Marathon,” another trippy song from the revue, is Les Flamandes (Flemish women), a scathing ditty about provincial attitudes. Since we live in an age of inclusion, I decided it was high time to include the provincial men and translated it as “Flemish Folk.”

Sometimes a song seems determined to deny me all access. I putter around with literal translations as placeholders, and then try to translate the translations into more supple English and try to get the beats to fall in the right places, and then try to get it all to rhyme. Other times I just wait patiently, and am rewarded when a key that unlocks an entire song falls into my hand. Les Marquises (a song about the Marquesa Islands) opened up when I realized I could rhyme “the Marquesas” ever so imperfectly with “places,” “races” and “stasis.” Ces Gens La, a deeply creepy tour de force about bourgeois life, opened up when I designated the family members Exhibit A and so on.

If all this sounds like a lot of work and frustration, let me hasten to add that I love the process. Brel published nearly 200 songs; I’ve completed 65 translations and am still going strong. Translating is a rare form of creative writing that is free of the most dispiriting part of the endeavor: the blank page. It gives me a chance to commune, maybe even collaborate posthumously, with a favorite writer. It lets me make my small contribution to the world of music.

It’s still hard to find the words I want. So I take a few at a time and hold them to the light to see what effects they produce, and I keep trying until eventually I capture that elusive quality: the essence of a song.

The Last Supper

For my last supper bring
my brothers here by me
and all my dogs and cats
and I’d like to smell the sea.
For my last supper tell
my neighbors to drop in
my long-lost cousins too
or at least some Chinamen.
When the communion cup is drained
break out my finest wine
from lovely mellow grapes
that grow on the sacred vine.
And I want us to devour
(when the priests are finally done)
pheasant under glass
flown in from the Dordogne.
Then escort me if you please
way high upon my hill
to watch my sleeping trees
huddle in the chill
and then for old time’s sake
I’ll toss pebbles to the sky
crying God is dead
one last time

When my last supper’s served
I’d like to see my mules
my milk cows and my hens
and all the family jewels.
When my last supper’s served
my lovers should come by
and I’ll kiss them all again
and never tell them why.
Then three sheets to the wind
as high as all the clouds
I’ll smash my glass to bits
to quiet down the crowd.
I’ll make the nuns all blush
as I sing with my last breath
my sordid songs of love
my morbid songs of death.
Then escort me if you please
way high upon my hill
to see the sun go down
and the world grow soft and still
And standing way up there
I’ll call the bourgeois swine
gleefully and loud
one last time.

When my last supper’s cleared
and everyone’s at hand
please tell them to move on
to someone else’s land.
When my last supper’s cleared
and they’ve all had their flings
I’ll sit upon my chair
like an ancient Roman king.
And I’ll light my pipe and burn
the memories of my youth
the remnants of my dreams
my little bits of truth.
All I’ll keep on hand
to warm my cooling soul
is a certain woman’s name
and the rosebush on my knoll.
Then high upon my hill
my hill that seems to sway
my hill that seems to dance
that seems to melt away
I’ll catch the scent of rose
upon the dying vine
and I know I’ll be afraid
one last time.

Le dernier repas

À mon dernier repas
Je veux voir mes frères
Et mes chiens et mes chats
Et le bord de la mer
À mon dernier repas
Je veux voir mes voisins
Et puis quelques Chinois
En guise de cousins
Et je veux qu’on y boive
En plus du vin de messe
De ce vin si joli
Qu’on buvait en Arbois
Je veux qu’on y dévore
Après quelques soutanes
Une poule faisane
Venue du Périgord
Puis je veux qu’on m’emmène
En haut de ma colline
Voir les arbres dormir
En refermant leurs bras
Et puis je veux encore
Lancer des pierres au ciel
En criant Dieu est mort
Une dernière fois

À mon dernier repas
Je veux voir mon âne
Mes poules et mes oies
Mes vaches et mes femmes
À mon dernier repas
Je veux voir ces drôlesses
Dont je fus maître et roi
Ou qui furent mes maîtresses
Quand j’aurai dans la panse
De quoi noyer la terre
Je briserai mon verre
Pour faire le silence
Et chanterai à tue-tête
À la mort qui s’avance
Les paillardes romances
Qui font peur aux nonnettes
Puis je veux qu’on m’emmène
En haut de ma colline
Voir le soir qui chemine
Lentement vers la plaine
Et là debout encore
J’insulterai les bourgeois
Sans crainte et sans remords
Une dernière fois

Après mon dernier repas
Je veux que l’on s’en aille
Qu’on finisse ripaille
Ailleurs que sous mon toit
Après mon dernier repas
Je veux que l’on m’installe
Assis seul comme un roi
Accueillant ses vestales
Dans ma pipe je brûlerai
Mes souvenirs d’enfance
Mes rêves inachevés
Mes restes d’espérance
Et je ne garderai
Pour habiller mon âme
Que l’idée d’un rosier
Et qu’un prénom de femme
Puis je regarderai
Le haut de ma colline
Qui danse qui se devine
Qui finit par sombrer
Et dans l’odeur des fleurs
Qui bientôt s’éteindra
Je sais que j’aurai peur
Une dernière fois.

The Warsaw City Walls

Madame parades her rear end past the Warsaw city walls
Madame parades her heartbeat for the has-been when he calls
Madame parades her shadow through Italian palace halls
you could say that madame has it all.
Madame parades at dawn to show she hasn’t slept a wink
Madame parades on bareback every whim and every kink
Madame parades in bars with guys who offer her a drink
You could say that madame’s in the pink.

Whereas I, should you call,
I’m checking coats at the music hall.

Madame parades all summer all the way down south to Nice
Madame parades her cleavage thus disturbing Nice’s peace
Madame parades her spleen up to the mountaintops of Greece
You could say that madame finds release.
Madame parades her dog, a boudin noir that she calls Dot
Madame parades her childhood which she edits on the spot
Madame parades her perfect Russian accent quite a lot
You could say she uses what she’s got.

Whereas I, should you call
I’m tending bar at the music hall.

Madame parades her coiffure with its scent of good perfume
Madame parades her gaze where older factory owners loom
Madame parades her laugh the way that others push a broom
You could say that Madame works the room.
Madame parades her brandy snifter making quite a scene
Madame parades her genes that come from squadrons of Marines
Madame says everyone should call her Auntie Jacqueline
You could say that madame is a queen.

Whereas I, if you call,
I’m singing pop tunes at the music hall.

Madame parades her hands through every soldier she can snare
Madame parades my pennies for the grifters in the square
Madame parades in first class and she makes me pay the fare
You could say… but I don’t like to swear.
Madame parades her cash and counts on me to manage the loot
Madame parades her jewelry hanging ripe as tropical fruit
Madame parades my Rolls Royce with the cops in hot pursuit
You could say that madame is a hoot.

Whereas I, if you call,
I’m doing dishes at the music hall.

Whereas I, should you call,
I’m checking coats at the music hall.

Madame parades all summer all the way down south to Nice
Madame parades her cleavage thus disturbing Nice’s peace
Madame parades her spleen…

Les Remparts de Varsovie

Madame promène son cul sur les remparts de Varsovie
Madame promène son coeur sur les ringards de sa folie
Madame promène son ombre sur les grand-places de l’Italie
Je trouve que Madame vit sa vie
Madame promène à l’aube les preuves de ses insomnies
Madame promène à ch’val ses états d’âme et ses lubies
Madame promène un con qui assure que Madame est jolie
Je trouve que Madame est servie

Tandis qu’moi, tous les soirs
Je suis vestiaire à l’Alcazar

Madame promène l’été jusque dans le Midi d’la France
Madame promène ses seins jusque dans le Midi d’la chance
Madame promène son spleen tout au long du lac de Constance
Je trouve Madame de circonstance
Madame promène son chien, un boudin noir nommé Byzance
Madame traîne son enfance qui change selon les circonstances
Madame promène partout son accent russe avec aisance
C’est vrai que Madame est de Valence

Tandis que moi tous les soirs
Je suis barman à l’Alcazar

Madame promène son ch’veu qui a la senteur des nuits de Chine
Madame promène son r’gard sur tous les vieux qui ont des usines
Madame promène son rire comme d’autres promènent leur vaseline
Je trouve que Madame est coquine
Madame promène ses cuites de verre en verre, de fine en fine
Madame promène les gènes de vingt mille officiers de marine
Madame raconte partout que l’on m’appelle “tata Jacqueline”
Je trouve Madame mauvaise copine

Tandis qu’moi, tous les soirs
Je suis chanteuse légère à l’Alcazar

Madame promène ses mains dans les différents corps d’armée
Madame promène mes sous chez des demi-sels de bas quartier
Madame promène carrosse qu’elle voudrait bien me voir tirer
Je trouve que Madame est gonflée
Madame promène banco qu’elle veut bien me laisser régler
Madame promène bijoux qu’elle veut bien me faire facturer
Madame promène ma Rolls que poursuivent quelques huissiers
Je trouve que Madame est pressée

Tandis qu’moi, tous les soirs
Je fais la plonge à l’Alcazar.

Madame promène son cul sur les remparts de Varsovie
Madame promène son cour sur les ringards de sa folie
Madame promène son ombre sur les grand-places de l’Italie
Je trouve que Madame vit sa vie
Madame promène à l’aube les preuves de ses insomnies
Madame promène à cheval ses états d’âme et ses lubies
Madame promène un con qui assure que Madame est jolie
Je trouve que Madame est servie

Tandis qu’moi, tous les soirs
Je suis vestiaire à l’Alcazar

Madame promène l’été jusque dans le Midi de la France
Madame promène ses seins jusque dans le Midi de la chance
Madame promène son spleen tout au long du lac de Constance
Je trouve Madame de circonstance
Madame promène son chien un boudin noir nommé Byzance
Madame traîne son enfance qui change selon les circonstances
Madame promène partout son accent russe avec aisance
C’est vrai que Madame est de Valence

Madame promène l’été jusque dans le Midi de la France
Madame promène ses seins jusque dans le Midi de la chance
Madame promène son spleen…

You Know Those Types

Exhibit A
exhibit A, the older son,
a melon on a vine
his nose so big and fat,
his name has slipped his mind
monsieur, how drunk he’ll be,
how drunk he always was
can’t take it anymore,
can’t work caused he’s too buzzed
his hands are shaking, see,
but he thinks he’s royalty.
Each night he has a date
with wine bought by the crate.
Next day he’ll snooze it off
at the sleepy morning mass
swollen up and stiff,
skin like candle wax
he’ll mumble his Lord’s prayer,
eyes darting everywhere.
What can I say, Monsieur
you know those types
they don’t ponder, Monsieur
they don’t ponder, they pray.

Exhibit B, the other one
carrots in his hair
never runs a comb
like a fungus, always there
but he’d give away his shirt
to a beggar on the street.
He’s married to Denise
who’s from the neighborhood
well, some neighborhood
and that’s not all of it
he goes about his days
he wears his little hat
he wears his little coat
he drives his little car
he tries so hard to gloat
to show you he’s a whiz
but it’s hard to put on airs
when your budget’s tight as his
what can I say, monsieur
you know those types.
Their hearts don’t beat, monsieur,
their hearts don’t beat, they cheat.

Exhibits C through E:
the mom with nothing to say
who babbles on all day
and watching from the wall
and casting such a pall
in his pretty wooden frame
is the dad and his mustache
who died slipping on the ice
who watches o’er his herd
scarfing down cold soup
and shloop’s their only word
all they do is shloop.
And the old lady over there
who vibrates in her chair
when will she ever croak
since she’s got all the dough.
No one listens anyway
to what her poor hands convey
What can I say, monsieur
you know those types
they don’t converse, monsieur
they don’t converse, they count.

And last, and last
I’ve saved Frida for last
as lovely as the sun
who loves me, I’m the one
the one in love with her
and how we like to dream
of the house we’re going to build
the one that will be filled
with windows everywhere
and hardly any walls
how happy we’ll be there.
It may still happen yet
but it isn’t a sure bet
because the others—they object
because the others—they object
the others they believe
that she’s too good for me
that I’m just good enough
to slit the throats of cats
I’ve never killed a cat
not that I recall
or not for many years
though I never liked the smell.
They object no matter what.
They object no matter what.
Sometimes we meet as if
by pure coincidence
and I see that she’s in tears
she says she will escape
she says she’ll follow me
and for a little while
for just a little while
I believe her, yes, monsieur.
For a little while,
for just a little while
because you know those types
monsieur—it’s hard to make a break
it’s hard to make a break, monsieur
it’s hard to make a break.
But it’s late, monsieur.
It’s time I get
back home.

Ces gens-là

D’abord
D’abord, y a l’aîné
Lui qui est comme un melon
Lui qui a un gros nez
Lui qui sait plus son nom
Monsieur tellement qu’i boit
Tellement qu’il a bu
Qui fait rien de ses dix doigts
Mais lui qui n’en peut plus
Lui qui est complètement cuit
Et qui s’prend pour le roi
Qui se saoule toutes les nuits
Avec du mauvais vin
Mais qu’on retrouve matin
Dans l’église qui roupille
Raide comme une saillie
Blanc comme un cierge de Pâques
Et puis qui balbutie
Et qui a l’oeil qui divague
Faut vous dire, Monsieur
Que chez ces gens-là
On ne pense pas, Monsieur
On ne pense pas, on prie

Et puis, y a l’autre
Des carottes dans les ch’veux
Qu’a jamais vu un peigne
Qu’est méchant comme une teigne
Même qu’i donnerait sa ch’mise
A des pauvres gens heureux
Qui a marié la Denise
Une fille de la ville
Enfin d’une autre ville
Et que c’est pas fini
Qui fait ses p’tites affaires
Avec son p’tit chapeau
Avec son p’tit manteau
Avec sa p’tite auto
Qu’aimerait bien avoir l’air
Mais qu’a pas l’air du tout
Faut pas jouer les riches
Quand on n’a pas le sou
Faut vous dire, Monsieur
Que chez ces gens-là
On ne vit pas, Monsieur
On ne vit pas, on triche

Et puis, il y a les autres
La mère qui n’dit rien
Ou bien n’importe quoi
Et du soir au matin
Sous sa belle gueule d’apôtre
Et dans son cadre en bois
Y a la moustache du père
Qui est mort d’une glissade
Et qui r’garde son troupeau
Bouffer la soupe froide
Et ça fait des grands “flchss”
Et ça fait des grands “flchss”
Et puis y a la toute vieille
Qu’en finit pas d’vibrer
Et qu’on attend qu’elle crève
Vu qu’c’est elle qu’a l’oseille
Et qu’on n’écoute même pas
C’que ses pauv’mains racontent
Faut vous dire, Monsieur
Que chez ces gens-là
On ne cause pas, Monsieur
On ne cause pas, on compte

Et puis, et puis
Et puis, y a Frida
Qui est belle comme un soleil
Et qui m’aime pareil
Que moi j’aime Frida
Même qu’on se dit souvent
Qu’on aura une maison
Avec des tas d’fenêtres
Avec presque pas d’murs
Et qu’on vivra dedans
Et qu’y f’ra bon y être
Et que si c’est pas sûr
C’est quand même peut-être
Pa’c’que les autres veulent pas
Pa’c’que les autres veulent pas
Les autres i disent comme ça
Qu’elle est trop belle pour moi
Que je suis tout juste bon
À égorger les chats
J’ai jamais tué d’chats
Ou alors y a longtemps
Ou bien j’ai oublié
Ou i sentaient pas bon
Enfin, i veulent pas
Enfin, i veulent pas
Parfois, quand on se voit
Semblant qu’c’est pas exprès
Avec ses yeux mouillants
Elle dit qu’elle partira
Elle dit qu’elle me suivra
Alors, pour un instant
Pour un instant seulement
Alors moi, je la crois, Monsieur
Pour un instant
Pour un instant seulement
Parce que, chez ces gens-là
Monsieur, on ne s’en va pas
On s’en va pas, Monsieur
On s’en va pas
Mais il est tard, Monsieur
Y faut qu’je rentre
Chez moi.

In the Marquesas

They talk of death the way you might discuss a peach
For them the ocean’s just the well beyond the beach

The women’s blood runs hot under relentless sun
when there’s no wintertime you can’t say summer comes

The rain comes passing through and lashes hard and long
some old white horses who are humming Gauguin’s song

No breeze to stir the spaces time in eternal stasis
in the Marquesas

At night you see the tips of fires as they glow
you see the moon advance, you hear the silence grow

Big rocks with crazy names that stand like ancient guards
they tear the sea apart into a thousand shards

And farther off some dogs, a snippet of a psalm
a bit of pas de deux, the night is growing calm

Trade winds off to the races the nighttime rests its cases
in the Marquesas

Laughter lives in the heart, the heart roams far away
words all live in a look, the future’s come what may

The palm trees sing of love as local nuns pass by
the trees drop coconuts the nuns deny, deny

Canoes go gliding past canoes come passing through
my memories start to feel the way old people’s do

I’ve learned to read their faces: Go whine in other places
not the Marquesas.

Les Marquises

Ils parlent de la mort comme tu parles d’un fruit
Ils regardent la mer comme tu regardes un puits

Les femmes sont lascives, au soleil redouté
Et s’il n’y a pas d’hiver, cela n’est pas l’été

La pluie est traversière, elle bat de grain en grain
Quelques vieux chevaux blancs qui fredonnent Gauguin

Et par manque de brise, le temps s’immobilise
Aux Marquises

Du soir montent des feux et des points de silence
Qui vont s’élargissant, et la lune s’avance

Et la mer se déchire, infiniment brisée
Par des rochers qui prirent des prénoms affolés

Et puis, plus loin, des chiens, des chants de repentance
Et quelques pas de deux, et quelques pas de danse

Et la nuit est soumise, et l’alizé se brise
Aux Marquises

Le rire est dans le cœur, le mot dans le regard
Le cœur est voyageur, l’avenir est au hazard

Et passent des cocotiers, qui écrivent des chants d’amour
Que les sœurs d’alentour ignorent d’ignorer

Les pirogues s’en vont, les pirogues s’en viennent
Et mes souvenirs deviennent ce que les vieux en font

Veux-tu que je te dise, gémir n’est pas de mise
Aux Marquises.

Flemish Folk

Flemish folk dance quietly
quietly on the Sabbath day
Flemish folk dance quietly
Flemish folk, they have nothing to say.
If they dance, it’s ‘cause they’re 21
at 21 it’s time to find a mate
find a mate to set the wedding date
set the wedding date so the stork can come.
These are things their parents prize
and the priest who’s very wise
listen to him sermonize
and that’s the reason why they dance.
Flemish folk, Flemish folk,
Flem, Flem, Flem, Flem Flemish folk.

Flemish folk dance ramrod straight
ramrod straight on the Sabbath day
Flemish folk dance ramrod straight
Flemish folk they never sway.
If they dance it’s ‘cause they’re 31
at 31 it’s good to show the world
that all is well with all their boys and girls
the hops is growing in the sun
They have earned their parents’ pride
and the priest who’s very wise
listen to him sermonize.
and that’s the reason why they dance.
Flemish folk, Flemish folk,
Flem, Flem, Flem, Flem Flemish folk.

Flemish folk dance stony faced
stony faced on the Sabbath day
Flemish folk dance stony faced
Flemish folk they frown on play.
If they dance it’s cause they’re 71
at 71 it’s good to show
that all is well, how the grandkids grow
the hops is drying in the sun.
All in black like their parents’ guise
and the priest who’s grown so wise
that the parishioners are tranquilized.
They’re in the will and that’s why they dance
Flemish folk, Flemish folk,
Flem, Flem, Flem, Flem, Flemish folk.

Flemish folk dance righteously
righteously on the Sabbath day
Flemish folk dance righteously
Flemish folk they never stray.
If they dance it’s ‘cause they’re a hundred and one
at a hundred and one it’s good to show
that all is well they’re still on the go
like the hops fermenting in the sun
and they’re about to win the prize
up to heaven they will rise
to join ma and pa and the priest so wise
and that’s the reason for this one last dance
Flemish folk, Flemish folk, Flem, Flem, Flem, Flem
Flemish folk, Flemish folk, Flemish folk
Flem, Flem, Flem, Flem, Flemish folk
Flemish folk, Flemish folk,
Flem, Flem, Flem, Flem Flemish folk.

Les Flamandes

Les Flamandes dansent sans rien dire
Sans rien dire aux dimanches sonnants
Les Flamandes dansent sans rien dire
Les Flamandes ça n’est pas causant
Si elles dansent, c’est parce qu’elles ont vingt ans
Et qu’à vingt ans il faut se fiancer
Se fiancer pour pouvoir se marier
Et se marier pour avoir des enfants
C’est ce que leur ont dit leurs parents
Le bedeau et même son Eminence
L’Archiprêtre qui prêche au couvent
Et c’est pour ça, et c’est pour ça qu’elles dansent
Les Flamandes, les Flamandes
Les Fla, les Fla, les Flamandes

Les Flamandes dansent sans frémir
Sans frémir aux dimanches sonnants
Les Flamandes dansent sans frémir
Les Flamandes ça n’est pas frémissant
Si elles dansent c’est parce qu’elles ont trente ans
Et qu’à trente ans il est bon de montrer
Que tout va bien, que poussent les enfants
Et le houblon et le blé dans le pré
Elles font la fierté de leurs parents
Du bedeau et de son Eminence
L’Archiprêtre qui prêche au couvent
Et c’est pour ça et c’est pour ça qu’elles dansent
Les Flamandes, les Flamandes
Les Fla, les Fla, les Flamandes

Les Flamandes dansent sans sourire
Sans sourire aux dimanches sonnants
Les Flamandes dansent sans sourire
Les Flamandes, ça n’est pas souriant
Si elles dansent, c’est qu’elles ont septante ans
Qu’à septante ans il est bon de montrer
Que tout va bien, que poussent les p’tits-enfants
Et le houblon et le blé dans le pré:
Toutes vêtues de noir comme leurs parents
Comme le bedeau et comme son Eminence
L’Archiprêtre qui radote au couvent
Elles héritent et c’est pour ça qu’elles dansent
Les Flamandes, les Flamandes
Les Fla, les Fla, les Flamandes

Les Flamandes dansent sans mollir
Sans mollir aux dimanches sonnants
Les Flamandes dansent sans mollir
Les Flamandes, ça n’est pas mollissant
Si elles dansent, c’est parce qu’elles ont cent ans
Et qu’à cent ans il est bon de montrer
Que tout va bien qu’on a toujours bon pied
Et bon houblon et bon blé dans le pré
Elles s’en vont retrouver leurs parents
Et le bedeau et même Son Eminence
L’Archiprêtre qui radote au couvent
Et c’est pour ça qu’une dernière fois elles dansent
Les Flamandes, les Flamandes, les Fla, les Fla
Les Flamandes, les Flamandes, les Flamandes
Les Fla, les Fla, les Flamandes
Les Flamandes, les Flamandes,
Les Fla, les Fla, les Flamandes