William McLennan (1856–1904)

(Translation of an old Chanson)

MALBROUCK has gone a-fighting,

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,

Malbrouck has gone a-fighting,

But when will he return?

Perchance he’ll come at Easter,

Or else at Trinity Term.

But Trinity Term is over

And Malbrouck comes not yet.

My Lady climbs her watch-tower

As high as she can get.

She sees her page approaching

All clad in sable hue:

‘Ah, page, brave page, what tidings

From my true lord bring you?’

‘The news I bring, fair Lady,

Will make your tears run down;

‘Put off your rose-red dress so fine

And doff your satin gown.

‘Monsieur Malbrouck is dead, alas!

And buried too, for ay;

‘I saw four officers who bore

His mighty corse away.

‘One bore his cuirass, and his friend

His shield of iron wrought;

‘The third his mighty sabre bore,

And the fourth—he carried nought.

‘And at the corners of his tomb

They planted rose-marie;

‘And from their tops the nightingale

Rings out her carol free.

‘We saw, above the laurels,

His soul fly forth amain;

‘And each one fell upon his face

And then rose up again.

‘And so we sang the glories

For which great Malbrouck bled;

‘And when the whole was ended

Each one went off to bed.

‘I say no more, my Lady,

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,

I say no more, my Lady,

As nought more can be said.’