He was living outside of the forestry trade
Never had to worry about the axe’s blade
He was growing content as ever can a tree
The great Oak standing proud and free.
His days would have been blessed as crown of the forests
Were it not for a neighbouring litter of pests
Fabulist mouthy reeds who had heard a story
About their kin and an oak tree.
From morning until dusk these sassy little prigs
Barely fishing pole gauge and no thicker than twigs
Naggingly chanted that come storm and hurricane
A tree will snap but not a cane.
Wooden that he may be, he found it difficult
To bear day after day the brunt of their insult
Resigned that with this crowd he could not reconcile
He just decided on exile.
Gingerly he pulled out his great roots from their track
And set out on his way without once looking back
But you should realize it hurt him to no end
To leave his ungrateful homeland.
Near the edge of the woods, near ready to topple
The melancholy oak met a necking couple
Would you please let us carve our names into your bark?
And a heart became his trademark.
When at last they relaxed their passionate embrace
When they had fully reached a state of kissing grace
They listened to the oak and soon their tears ran free
Upon hearing his sad story.
Great oak, why don’t you come with us and find some peace
Our rushes are gentle and no one is a tease
You will have on our grounds an enjoyable stay
And will be watered every day?
Thus agreed they embarked on his new homeward route
Each lover holding on to the oak by a root
O he seemed so happy, his worries were over
The great Oak and his two lovers.
They had him firmly planted within the hour
And that’s when their story began to turn sour
The water was no more than the random sprinkles
Of dogs’ territorial tinkles.
They took all of his acorns to fatten their pork
They stripped him of his bark and turned it into cork
The lawless populace being prone to lynching
He served as the place of hanging.
The unscrupulous pair, with no tears to be shed
Sliced him up into boards and built themselves a bed
And since the heartless wench took so many lovers
He withered beneath her covers.
One sad and mournful day, final ignominy
He was chopped into bits and sent up the chimney
Like some mere firewood he left his place of birth
Billowing clouds above the earth.
The priest of our parish, poor holy little sod
Does not believe that the smoke will rise up to God
What the hell does he know, who is he to surmise
There is no oak in paradise
There is no oak in paradise?
© Didier Delahaye, 2002
Il vivait en dehors des chemins forestiers
Ce n´était nullement un arbre de métier
Il n´avait jamais vu l´ombre d´un bûcheron
Ce grand chêne fier sur son tronc.
Il eût connu des jours filés d´or et de soie
Sans ses proches voisins, les pires gens qui soient
Des roseaux mal pensant, pas même des bambous
S´amusant à le mettre à bout.
Du matin jusqu´au soir ces petit rejetons,
Tout juste cann´ à pêch´, à peine mirlitons,
Lui tournant tout autour chantaient, in extenso
L´histoire du chêne et du roseau.
Et, bien qu´il fût en bois, les chênes, c´est courant
La fable ne le laissait pas indifférent
Il advint que lassé d´être en but aux lazzi
Il se résolu à l´exi(l).
A grand-peine il sortit ses grands pieds de son trou
Et partit sans se retourner ni peu ni prou
Mais, moi qui l´ai connu, je sais qu´il en souffrit
De quitter l´ingrate patrie.
A l´orée des forêts, le chêne ténébreux
A lié connaissance avec deux amoureux.
Grand chêne laisse-nous sur toi graver nos noms
Le grand chêne n´as pas dit non.
Quand ils eur´nt épuisé leur grand sac de baisers
Quand, de tant s´embrasser, leurs becs furent usés
Ils ouïrent alors, en retenant des pleurs
Le chêne contant ses malheurs.
Grand chên´, viens chez nous, tu trouveras la paix
Nos roseaux savent vivre et n´ont aucun toupet
Tu feras dans nos murs un aimable séjour
Arrosé quatre fois par jour.
Cela dit, tous les trois se mettent en chemin
Chaque amoureux tenant une racine en main
Comme il semblait content, comme il semblait heureux
Le chêne entre ses amoureux.
Au pied de leur chaumière, ils le firent planter
Ce fut alors qu´il commença de déchanter
Car, en fait d´arrosage, il n´eut rien que la pluie
Des chiens levant la patt´ sur lui.
On a pris tous ses glands pour nourrir les cochons
Avec sa belle écorce on a fait des bouchons
Chaque fois qu´un arrêt de mort était rendu
C´est lui qui héritait du pendu.
Puis ces mauvaises gens, vandales accomplis
Le coupèrent en quatre et s´en firent un lit
Et l´horrible mégère ayant des tas d´amants
Il vieillit prématurément.
Un triste jour, enfin, ce couple sans aveu
Le passa par la hache et le mit dans le feu
Comme du bois de caisse, amère destinée
Il périt dans la cheminée.
Le curé de chez nous, petit saint besogneux
Doute que sa fumée s´élève jusqu´à Dieu
Qu´est-c´qu´il en sait, le bougre, et qui donc lui a dit
Qu´y a pas de chêne en paradis ?
Qu´y a pas de chêne en paradis ?
Georges Brassens, 1966
IX (1966)
Supplique pour être enterré à la plage de Sète Supplication To Be Buried On The Shores Of A Faraway Isle
Le fantôme Ghost Story
La fessée Spanking
Les quatre bacheliers Four Sophomores
Le bulletin de santé Bill of Health
La non-demande en mariage Non Proposal
Le grand chêne The Oak Tree
L’épave A Wreck
Le moyenâgeux Middle-Ages Crisis
