Dans ma main droite y-a-t-un rosier
Qui fleurira, manon lon la,
Qui fleurira au mois de mai.
Entrez en danse, joli rosier!
Et embrassez, manon lon la,
Et embrassez qui vous plaira.
Indeed, I have heard that ingenious melody at home. To hear again, so far from home, the words and the spirit of our old rural France, hard-working all the week and always ready to dance and to “baller” during the Sunday leisure, is an impression not to be forgotten and which at first seems like a dream.
“We also have,” my Canadian said to me, “the ‘Clear Fountain.’ Everybody in Canada knows that romance, which came from Normandy. We also have some ‘chansons de filasse’ (flax songs) sung in tremulous voice by our good grandmothers: ‘En filant ma quenouille.’ Our Bretons have preserved their sea songs: ‘A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer.’ Or ‘Dans les prisons de Nantes.’ And also:
Fringue, fringue sur la rivière
Fringue, fringue sur l’aviron.”