Elle avait sous sa toque de martre, 
Sur la butte Montmartre, 
Un petit air innocent. 

On l'appelait rose, elle était belle, 
À sentait bon la fleur nouvelle, 
Rue Saint-Vincent.

Elle avait pas connu son père,
Elle avait plus de mère,
Et depuis 1900,

A’ demeurait chez sa vieille aïeule
Où qu'à s'élevait comme ça, toute seule,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

À travaillait déjà pour vivre
Et les soirs de givre,
Dans le froid noir et glaçant,
Son petit fichu sur les épaules,
À rentrait par la rue des Saules,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

Elle voyait dans les nuit gelées,
La nappe étoilée,
Et la lune en croissant
Qui brillait, blanche et fatidique
Sur la petite croix de la basilique,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

L'été, par les chauds crépuscules,
A rencontré Jules,
Qu'était si caressant,
Qu'à restait la soirée entière,
Avec lui près du vieux cimetière,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

Et je petit Jules était de la tierce
Qui soutient la gerce,
Aussi l'adolescent,
Voyant qu'elle marchait pantre,
D'un coup de surin lui troua le ventre,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

Quand ils l'ont couché sur la planche,
Elle était toute blanche,
Même qu'en l'ensevelissant,
Les croque-morts disaient que la pauvre gosse
Était crevé le soir de sa noce,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

Elle avait sous sa toque de martre, 
Sur la butte Montmartre,
Un petit air innocent.
On l'appelait rose, elle était belle,
À sentait bon la fleur nouvelle,
Rue Saint-Vincent.

English translation :

RUE SAINT VINCENT

She had not known her father

Her mother was gone

And since 1900

She lived in her old grandma’ s house

Where she took care of herself

She was already working for living

And on frosty evenings 

In the black freezing cold

Her little shawl aroun her shoulders

She came home by the rue des Saules

Rue Saint-Vincent.

In these frozen nights

She saw the curtain of the stars

And the crescent moon

Shining white and fateful

On the little croce of the basilica

Rue Saint-Vincent.

By the warm summer twilight

She would meet Jules,

Who was so tender

She would stay all evening long

With him near the old cemetery

Rue Saint-Vincent.

And the young Jules was a good-for-nothing

Pimping the girls

When this kid

Saw she was not playing the game

He stabbed her in the stomach

Rue Saint-Vincent.

When they laid her out

She was all white.

The undertakers burying her

Said that the poor child

Croaked on her wedding day 

Beneath her marten hat

On the Butte Montmartre,

She had an innocent little air.

She was called Rose, she was beautiful

With a scent like a young flower

Rue Saint-Vincent.

Quand elle était p'tite 
Le soir elle allait 
À Sainte-Marguerite 
Où qu'a s'dessalait 
Maint'nant qu'elle est grande 
Elle marche, le soir, 
Avec ceux d'la bande

À la Bastille on aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
Elle est si bonne et si gentille! 
On aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
À la Bastille.

Elle a la peau douce 
Aux taches de son 
À l'odeur de rousse 
Qui donne un frisson

Et de sa prunelle
Aux tons vert-de-gris 
L'amour étincelle 
Dans ses yeux d'souris.

À la Bastille on aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
Elle est si bonne et si gentille! 
On aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
À la Bastille. 

Quand le soleil brille 
Dans ses cheveux roux 
L'génie d'la Bastille 
Lui fait les yeux doux 
Et quand a s'promène 
Du bout d'l'Arsenal 
Tout l'quartier s'amène 
Au coin du Canal.

À la Bastille on aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
Elle est si bonne et si gentille! 
On aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
À la Bastille. 

Mais celui qu'elle aime 
Qu'elle a dans la peau 
C'est Bibi-la-Crème 
Parc' qu'il est costaud

Parc' que c'est un homme 
Qui n'a pas l'foie blanc 
Aussi faut voir comme 
Nini l'a dans l'sang.

À la Bastille on aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
Elle est si bonne et si gentille! 
On aime bien 
Nini Peau d'chien 
À la Bastille.

English translation :

NINI PEAU DE CHIEN

When she was little

In the evening she would go

To Saint Marguerite

To unwind

Now she is bigger

In the evening she goes walking

With the little band

Of Richard-Lenoir

At the Bastille we like her

Nini Peau d’Chien

She is so nice, so kind

We like

Nini Peau d’Chien

At the Bastille

She has soft skin

With freckles

And a red hair fragrance

To make you shiver

And from her green-grey pupils

Love’s sparkles

In her young girl’s eyes

When the sun is shining

In her red hair

Le Génie de la Bastille

Makes eyes at her

And when she walks

From the end of the Arsenal

The Whole neighbourhood arrives

At the corner of the Canal.

But the one she loves

Who gets under her skin

Is Bibi-la-Crème

Because he is a tough guy

Because he is a man

Who’s not lily livered

Words can’t say

How deep in her heart he’s become

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here

Quand au bout d'huit jours, le r'pos terminé,
On va r'prendre les tranchées,
Notre place est si utile
Que sans nous on prend la pile.
Mais c'est bien fini, on en a assez,
Personn' ne veut plus marcher,
Et le cœur bien gros, comm' dans un sanglot
On dit adieu aux civ'lots.
Même sans tambour, même sans trompette,
On s'en va là-haut en baissant la tête.

Adieu la vie, adieu l'amour,
Adieu toutes les femmes.
C'est bien fini, c'est pour toujours,
De cette guerre infâme.
C'est à Craonne, sur le plateau,
Qu'on doit laisser sa peau
Car nous sommes tous condamnés
Nous sommes les sacrifiés !

Huit jours de tranchées, huit jours de souffrance,
Pourtant on a l'espérance
Que ce soir viendra la r'lève
Que nous attendons sans trêve.
Soudain, dans la nuit et dans le silence,
On voit quelqu'un qui s'avance,
C'est un officier de chasseurs à pied,
Qui vient pour nous remplacer.
Doucement dans l'ombre, sous la pluie qui tombe
Les petits chasseurs vont chercher leurs tombes.

English translation :

Craonne Song

When at the end of a week's leave

We go back to the trenches, 

Our place there is so useful

That without us we'd get a thrashing.

But now it’s finished we've had enough

Nobody wants to march anymore.

And with hearts downcast with sobs,

We're saying good-bye to the civilians, 

Even without drum or trumpet

We're heading up there with lowered heads.

Good-bye to life, good-bye to love, 

Good-bye to all you women, 

It's finished, and forever

we've had it for good with this awful war.

It's in Craonne up on the plateau 

That we're leaving our skins,

'Cause we've all been sentenced to die. 

We're the ones that they're sacrificing

A week in the trenches, a week of suffering, 

And yet we still have hope

That tonight the relief will come 

That we keep waiting for.

Suddenly in the silent night 

We hear someone approach

It's an infantry officer 

Who's coming to take over from us. 

Quietly in the shadows as the rain falls

The poor soldiers go in search of their graves

Those who’ve got the dough, they will come back

'Cause it's for them that we're dying. 

Now it’s finished, 'cause all us poor soldiers

 Are going to go on strike. 

It'll be your turn, fat cats, 

To go up onto the plateau. 

And if you want war, 

Then pay for it with your own skins.

On the grand boulevards it's hard to watch

 All the fat cats whooping it up 

For them life is good 

But for us it's not the same 

Instead of hiding, all these shirkers 

Would do better by going up to the trenches 

To defend what they have, because we have nothing 

All of us poor wretches 

All our comrades are buried there 

Defending the wealth of these gentlemen here