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When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning; I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor and honest sodger. A leal, light heart was in my breast, My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; And for fair Scotia hame again, I cheery on did wander: I thought upon the banks o' Coil, I thought upon my Nancy, I thought upon the witching smile That caught my youthful fancy. At length I reach'd the bonie glen, Where early life I sported; I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, Where Nancy aft I courted: Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, Down by her mother's dwelling! And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling. Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O! happy, happy may he be, That's dearest to thy bosom: My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain would be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang- Take pity on a sodger." Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, And lovelier was than ever; Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed, Forget him shall I never: Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it; That gallant badge-the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't." She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose - Syne pale like only lily; She sank within my arms, and cried, "Art thou my ain dear Willie?" "By him who made yon sun and sky! By whom true love's regarded, I am the man; and thus may still True lovers be rewarded. "The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted." Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly; And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!" For gold the merchant ploughs the main, The farmer ploughs the manor; But glory is the sodger's prize, The sodgerpppp's wealth is honor: The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, Nor count him as a stranger; Remember he's his country's stay, In day and hour of danger.
J. Haydn sets stanzas 1, 3-4, 6-7
Syne = then;
Gear = riches, goods of any kind;
Gowd = gold;
Mailin = farm.
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796), "The Soldier's Return", written 1793 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by (Franz) Joseph Haydn (1732 - 1809), "The soldier's return", JHW. XXXII/5 no. 406, Hob. XXXIa no. 92b, stanzas 1,3-4,6-7 [sung text checked 1 time]
Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:
- Also set in Russian (Русский), a translation by Samuil Yakovlevich Marschak (1887 - 1964) ; composed by Georgiy Vasil'yevich Sviridov.
Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Le retour du soldat", copyright © 2019, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Ferdinando Albeggiani
This text was added to the website: 2012-02-11
Line count: 64
Word count: 383
Quand le souffle mortel de cette guerre sauvage s'éteignit Et qu'une agréable paix fut revenue, Avec bien de doux enfants sans père Et bien des veuves en deuil, Je quittai le front et ses champs de tentes Où longtemps je fus pensionnaire Avec pour toute fortune mon havresac, Pauvre et honnête soldat. J'atteignis enfin la belle vallée Où dans mon enfance je m'amusais, Je passai le moulin et l'aubépine aux rendez-vous Où souvent je courtisais Nancy ; Je n'aperçus qu'elle, ma mie chérie, En-bas près de la maison de sa mère, Et je me retournai pour cacher le flot Qui montait dans mes yeux. D'une vois altérée je dis «Douce fille, Douce comme ce bourgeon d'aubépine, Ô qu'il est heureux, heureux, Celui qui est le plus cher à ton cœur ! Ma bourse est légère, j'ai loin à aller Et je serais content d'être ton pensionnaire ; J'ai longtemps servi mon roi et mon pays, Aies pitié d'un soldat. » Elle me regarda fixement, elle rougit comme une rose, Puis, pâle comme un lis, Elle tomba dans mes bras et s'écria : « Es-tu mon, cher Willie ? » « Par celui qui fit ce soleil et ce ciel, Par celui qui estima le véritable amour, Je suis cet homme,et puissent les véritables amoureux Être toujours ainsi récompensés. Les guerres sont finies, et je suis rentré à la maison, Et je te retrouve toujours fidèle ; Bien que pauvres en avoirs, nous sommes riches d'amour, Et en plus, jamais nous ne nous séparerons. » Elle répondit « Mon grand-père m'a laissé de l'or Une ferme bien pourvue ; Et viens, mon fidèle soldat, Tu y es, mon chéri, le bienvenu ! »
Authorship:
- Translation from Scottish (Scots) to French (Français) copyright © 2019 by Pierre Mathé, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in Scottish (Scots) by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796), "The Soldier's Return", written 1793
This text was added to the website: 2019-04-19
Line count: 40
Word count: 282