| The Joyous Wanderer |
| Translated from M. Catulle Mendès |
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I go by road, I go by street—
Lira, la, la!
O white highways, ye know my feet!
A loaf I carry and, all told,
Three broad bits of lucky gold—
Lira, la, la!
And O within my flowering heart,
(Sing, dear nightingale!) is my Sweet.
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A poor man met me and begged for bread—
Lira, la, la!
“Brother, take all the loaf,” I said,
I shall but go with lighter cheer—
Lira, la, la!
And O within my flowering heart
(Sing, sweet nightingale!) is my Dear.
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A thief I met on the lonely way—
Lira, la, la!
He took my gold; I cried to him, “Stay!
And take my pocket and make an end.”
Lira, la la!
And O within my flowering heart
(Sing, soft nightingale!) is my Friend.
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Now on the plain I have met with death—
Lira, la, la!
My bread is gone, my gold, my breath.
But O this heart is not afraid—
Lira, la, la!
For O within this lonely heart
(Sing, sad nightingale!) is my Maid.
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