Later French triolets
The following is an 18th century reworking of a mid-17th century triolet by Saint-Amant which is attributed by Claude Joannet in 1752 to Paul Scarron.
1.
For making good, strong, triolets,
For making good, strong, triolets,
It means you notice
these three causes:
For one, the mood
has charming ways
For making good,
strong, triolets,
For two, it has a
role it plays,
For three, it has
its perfect pauses,
For making good,
strong, triolets,
It means you notice
these three causes.
Pour faire un fort
bon triolet,
Il faut observer ces
trois choses:
Sçavoir que l’air
en soit follet
Pour faire un fort
bon triolet.
Qu’il entre bien
dans le rollet,
Et qu’il tombe au
vrai lieu des pauses:
Pour faire un fort
bon triolet,
Il faut observer ces
trois choses.
2.
To Mr. Prost de Royer, Procurator General of the town of Lyon, in 1770.
To Mr. Prost de Royer, Procurator General of the town of Lyon, in 1770.
Yes, eloquence and
probity,
Are they with you
hereditary?
You join with
affability,
Your eloquence and
honesty.
We see in you
integrity
You, from your
fathers, do not bury.
Yes, eloquence and
probity
Are they hereditary?
L'éloquence et la
probité
Seroient-elles
héréditaires;
Tu joins avec
l'aménité,
L'éloquence et la
probité.
On voit dans toi
l’intégrité
Que
l’on admiroit dans tes pères.
L'eloquence et la
probité
Seroient-elles
héréditaires?
3.
Green gallant was he when a youth!
Again to want to be's an error;
Old talents brags he of, in truth.
Green gallant was he when a youth!
The past's recalled too much, in sooth”,
Says one who thinks he knows the terror.
Green gallant was he when a youth!
Again to want to be's an error.
Green gallant was he when a youth!
Again to want to be's an error;
Old talents brags he of, in truth.
Green gallant was he when a youth!
The past's recalled too much, in sooth”,
Says one who thinks he knows the terror.
Green gallant was he when a youth!
Again to want to be's an error.
Qui jeune fut un vert galant!
A tort de vouloir
encor l'être;
En vain il vante un
vieux talent,
Qui jeune fut un
vert galant;
Le passé nuit trop
au présent,
Dit Eglé qui croit
s'y connaître.
Qui jeune fut un
vert galant,
A tort de vouloir
encor l'être.
The following triolet has been attributed to the 18th century French dramatist, Alexis Piron (1689 – 1773).
The following poem has been attributed to Charles Vanderbourg, a French writer active in the early 19th century.
4.
Thanks to the abbot of Seguy,
Thanks to the abbot of Seguy,
Fine gentlemen,
you're back to forty.
It's said you've
made it so to be,
Thanks to the abbot
of Seguy.
By death of whom, I
know not me.
Then came but thirty
nine for more tea
Thanks to the abbot
of Seguy,
Fine gentlemen,
you're back to forty.
Grâce à monsieur
l’abbé Séguy,
Messieurs, vous
revoilà quarante.
On dit que vous
faites aussi
Grâce à monsieur
l’abbé Séguy.
Par la mort de je ne
sais qui
Vous n'étiez plus
que neuf et trente:
Grâce â monsieur
l’abbé Séguy,
Messieurs, vous
revoilà quarante.
5.
How sweet is loving
at sixteen,
Sweet little lady,
dear and simple
Who hardly knows
what way she'll lean,
How sweet is loving
at sixteen!
Yes, what do languid
eyes then mean,
The losing more than
of a dimple ....
How sweet is loving
at sixteen,
Sweet little lady,
dear and simple.
Qu'il est doux
d'aimer à seize ans
Naïve et gentille
fillette,
Qui sait à peine en
son printemps,
Qu'il est doux
d'aimer à seize ans !
Ah ! quand ses
regards languissant,
Déjà présagent sa
défaite ....
Qu'il est donx
d'aimer à seize ans
Naïve et gentille
fillette!
The following three triolets (the first dating to 1842 and the second to 1859) are by Théodore
de Banville, a mid-19th century French poet who brought new popularity to the triolet verse form.
6.
Could like the wind I take to wing,
I'd light upon your lips. There dying,
I'd move them with a key I'd bring,
Could like the wind I take to wing.
And near those breasts to which I sing
I'd slide beside them, I'd be trying.
Could like the wind I take to wing,
I'd light upon your lips, there dying.
Could like the wind I take to wing,
I'd light upon your lips. There dying,
I'd move them with a key I'd bring,
Could like the wind I take to wing.
And near those breasts to which I sing
I'd slide beside them, I'd be trying.
Could like the wind I take to wing,
I'd light upon your lips, there dying.
Si
j'étais le Zéphyr ailé,
J'irais
mourir sur votre bouche.
Ces
voiles, j'en aurais la clé
Si
j'étais le Zéphyr ailé.
Près
des seins pour qui je brûlai
Je
me glisserais dans la couche.
Si
j'étais le Zéphyr ailé,
J'irais
mourir sur votre bouche.
7.
STUDENT
OF VOLTAIRE!
So have you read Voltaire? Oh, no;
Not
once, not even in my dreaming.
But
that must be a lie, not so?
So
have you read Voltaire? Oh, No.
That,
as an answer, you can't show
Yet
be for all his pupil seeming!
So
have you read Voltaire? Oh, no;
Not
once, not even in my dreaming.
January
1859.
ÉLÈVE DE VOLTAIRE!
As-tu lu Voltaire? Non pas;
Jamais, jamais, pas
même en rêve.
Allons, dis si tu
nous trompas:
As-tu lu Voltaire?
Non pas.
Il suffit: je vais
de ce pas
T'annoncer comme son
élève !
As-tu lu Voltaire?
Non pas.
Jamais, jamais, pas
même en rêve.
Janvier 1859.
8.
As
I
was gazing at her neck,
"Now sing," said Paula,
sounding colder.
She did Attila's looks bedeck,
As I was gazing at her neck
And time, more time, there seemed
to trek.
And it looked white, her naked
shoulder,
As I was gazing at her neck.
"Now sing," said Paula,
sounding colder.
Moi,
je regardais ce cou-là.
"Maintenant
chantez," me dit Paule.
Avec des mines
d'Attila
Moi,
je regardais ce cou-là.
Puis, un peu de
temps s'écoula . . .
Qu’elle était
blanche, son épaule:
Moi,
je regardais ce cou-là;
“Maintenant
chantez,” me dit Paule.
9.
My sad heart's on
the poop deck haunching,
tobacco covered is
my heart.
They therein jets of
soup are launching.
My sad heart's on
the poop deck haunching,
the troop's debates
my ears unstaunching,
whose laughter is a
piercing dart.
My sad heart's on
the poop deck haunching,
Tobacco covered is
my heart!
Mon triste coeur
bave à
la poupe,
mon coeur couvert de
caporal:
ils y lancent des
jets de soupe,
mon triste coeur
bave à
la poupe:
sous les quolibets
de la troupe
qui pousse un rire
général,
mon triste coeur
bave à
la poupe
mon coeur couvert de
caporal !
The following triolet by Maurice Rollinat dates to 1883. It is the first stanza of a much longer poem.
10.
She
takes herself through fields along,
Along
the bushes now resprouting
Of
whispers full and also song,
She
takes herself through fields along.
Where
hillside's stubble does belong,
My
eyes see friends are on an outing.
She
takes herself through fields along,
Along
the bushes now resprouting.
Elle s'en vient à
travers champs,
Le long des buissons
qui renaissent
Pleins de murmures
et de chants;
Elle s'en vient à
travers champs.
Là-bas, sur les
chaumes penchants,
Mes yeux amis la
reconnaissent.
Elle s'en vient à
travers champs,
Le long des buissons
qui renaissent.
The following triolet by Paul Verlaine dates to 1890.
11.
For
size of feelings that you'll find
You'll
not be mesuring my power,
For
no pretenses stay in mind
For
size of feelings that you'll find.
You,
mine, hold tight, my good ones bind
On
wood, behind your bark, let cower.
For
size of feelings that you'll find
You'll
not be measuring my power.
A
la grosseur du sentiment
Ne
vas pas mesurer ma force,
Je
ne prétends
aucunement
A
la grosseur du sentiment.
Toi,
serre le mien bontément
Entre
ton arbre et ton écorce.
A
la grosseur du sentiments
Ne
vas pas mesure ma force.
12.
From every side,
from here and there,
The birds are
singing in their bowers,
In B flat, and in C,
sung fair,
From every side,
from here and there.
The meadows put on
party wear.
Are filled up with
their small white flowers.
From every side,
from here and there,
The birds are
singing in their bowerrs,
De tous côtés,
d'ici, de là,
Les oiseaux
chantaient dans les branches,
En si bémol, en ut,
en la,
De tous côtés,
d'ici, de là.
Les prés en habit
de gala .
Étaient pleins de
fleurettes blanches.
De tous côtés,
d'ici, de là,
Les oiseaux
chantaient dans les branches.
The following triolet by the 19th century French poet, Stéphane
Mallarmé, was first published in 1920.
13.
Our
violin's expecting more
Than
sign of starting from the Mayor.
This
orchestra finds me a player;
Our
violin's expecting more.
The
horse-filled meadow to explore,
The
moon pours forth shape-changing prayer.
Our
violin's expecting more
Than
sign of starting from the Mayor.
Notre
violon n'attend plus
Qu'un
signe de Monsieur le Maire
Cet
orchestre que j'énumère,
Notre
violon, n'attend plus.
Déjà,
sur les prés chevalus,
La
lune verse sa chimère.
Notre
violon n'attend plus
Qu'un
signe de Monsieur le Maire.
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