Poetry

I wear holes in my stockings
And I wore out my clogs,
And I wore out my clogs,
Since I started a-wooing,
Gay gay gay fonladondennig
Since I started a-wooing,
Chasing Lou through meads and bogs.

Everyone begs her graces
When Louise to church walks
In her dress trimmed with laces,
About her are all the talks.

In her dress trimmed with laces,
With roses in her hair,
The lads give backward glances,
Every lass an angry glare.

As she goes by, the lasses
To one another tell:
"I guess, no one surpasses
Her in beauty: she's the belle."

All the town dwellers whisper
In one another's ear:
"You're in fashion and proper
Now if you wear jet-black gear."

"I'm unaware of fashion
And I do not speak French.
A noble who hears Breton,
Will keep as dumb as a tench.

Now, to speak French, if needed,
I'll have a little maid
And if I get confused
I shall summon her for aid.

She shall dress and undress me
Help me off with my shoes
And to bed she shall see me
Where I'll sleep with whom I'll choose."

Neither rain, nor hail ever,
Nor the snow on the ground,
Should discourage a lover
Once a soul mate he has found.

Translated from the Breton