Au cimetière (Gabriel Fauré)

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Editor: Wim Looyestijn (submitted 2020-03-17).   Score information: A4, 3 pages, 59 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: Transposed up by a major third to G.
Editor: Wim Looyestijn (submitted 2020-03-17).   Score information: A4, 3 pages, 62 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: Transposed down by minor third to C.
Editor: Wim Looyestijn (submitted 2020-03-17).   Score information: A4, 3 pages, 60 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: This is the original version in Es.

General Information

Title: Au cimetière
Composer: Gabriel Fauré
Lyricist: Richepincreate page

Number of voices: 1v   Voicings: high, medium, and low voice
Genre: SecularChanson

Language: French
Instruments: Piano


External websites:

Original text and translations

French.png French text

Heureux qui meurt ici
Ainsi que les oiseaux des champs!
Son corps près des amis
Est mis dans l'herbe et dans les chants.

Il dort d'un bon sommeil
Vermeil, sous le ciel radieux.
Tous ceux qu'il a connus,
Venus, lui font de longs adieux.

A sa croix les parents
Pleurants, restent agenouillés;
Et ses os, sous les fleurs,
De pleurs, sont doucement mouillés.

Chacun sur le bois noir
Peut voir s'il était jeune ou non,
Et peut avec de vrais
Regrets l'appeler par son nom.

Combien plus malchanceux
Sont ceux qui meurent à la mé,
Et sous le flot profond
S'en vont loin du pays aimé!

Ah! pauvres, qui pour seuls
Linceuls ont les goémons verts
Où l'on roule inconnu,
Tout nu, et les yeux grands ouverts.

English.png English translation

Happy the one who dies here
like the birds of the fields!
His body close to his friends
is placed in the grass and among the songs.

He sleeps a good vermilion
sleep, beneath the radiant sky.
All those whom he knew,
having come, bid him long farewells.

At his cross his relatives,
weeping, stay on their knees;
and his bones, beneath the flowers,
with tears are gently watered.

Everyone, on the black wood,
may see whether he was young or not,
and may, with genuine
regrets, call him by his name.

How much more unfortunate
are those who die at sea,
and, beneath the deep water,
depart far from the beloved country!

Ah! Poor fellows, who, for their only
shrouds, have the green seaweeds,
where one rolls unknown,
naked, and with eyes wide open.