La complainte de la butte [English translation]

At the top of Saint Vincent's street

A poet and a stranger

Fall in love at first sight

But it was never seen again

This song he composed

Hoping that one day in spring

His stranger will hear it

At some street corner

The moon, too pale,

Creates a diadem

On your red hair

The moon, too fuzzy

Splashes of glory

Your petticoat full of wholes

The moon, too pale

Caresses the opal

In your jaded eyes

Princess of your street

Is the welcome

In my broken heart

The stairs of the Butte

Are difficult for the desperate

The wings of mills

Protect the lovers

Little beggar

I feel your cuff

Which is looking for my hand

I feel your chest

And your thin waist

I forget my temper

I feel on your lip

A feverish smell

Of a malnourished boy

And under your caress

I feel a drunkenness

Which is destroying me

The stairs of the Butte

Are difficult for the desperate

The wings of mills

Protect lovers

But here he is floating

The moon is hiking

The princess, too,

Under the sky without the moon

I cry to the brunette

My dream fainted