La lune est pleine, on monte ce soir avec Beausoleil.
Il fera claire au fond du grand bois.
Déjà les hommes ils sont fatigués,
L’hiver passé on n’était pas capable de se loger.
De plus en plus on parle de la Louisianne.
Ce n’était rien qu’un rêve qu’on appellait l’Acadie.
Lance de feu, couteau d’amour.
Regarder dans les yeux d’un amant
Voir que de la peine.
C’aurait été mieux si ce n’aurait jamais arrivé.
Ce n’était rien qu’un rêve qu’on appellait l’amour.
Bataille pour le bleu du ciel
Un vautour contre une colombe.
Rayure de vol mortel,
Griffe pointu, bec armé.
C’était comme si tout nos chances
Étaient déjà prisonnières,
Comme la peine que tu me lances,
Comme l’amour qu’on a trouvé.
Sang de colombe dans ses griffes,
Bouche de vautour pleine de brûlures.
Les yeux plein de peur,
La colombe qui tremble pur.
Quand au haut ciel un aigle,
Prépare ses ailes pour la descente.
Dans son geste éternel,
Il lance ses feux,
Il prend revanche.
La récolte riche, la vallée fleurie
La buchane aux cheminées.
Le village tranquille,
Les enfants qui jouent au soleil.
Les cendres des arbres,
Les pierres de la terre étaient tous endeuillés.
Ce n’était rien qu’un rêve qu’on appelait la liberté.
Il fera claire au fond du grand bois.
Déjà les hommes ils sont fatigués,
L’hiver passé on n’était pas capable de se loger.
De plus en plus on parle de la Louisianne.
Ce n’était rien qu’un rêve qu’on appellait l’Acadie.
Lance de feu, couteau d’amour.
Regarder dans les yeux d’un amant
Voir que de la peine.
C’aurait été mieux si ce n’aurait jamais arrivé.
Ce n’était rien qu’un rêve qu’on appellait l’amour.
Bataille pour le bleu du ciel
Un vautour contre une colombe.
Rayure de vol mortel,
Griffe pointu, bec armé.
C’était comme si tout nos chances
Étaient déjà prisonnières,
Comme la peine que tu me lances,
Comme l’amour qu’on a trouvé.
Sang de colombe dans ses griffes,
Bouche de vautour pleine de brûlures.
Les yeux plein de peur,
La colombe qui tremble pur.
Quand au haut ciel un aigle,
Prépare ses ailes pour la descente.
Dans son geste éternel,
Il lance ses feux,
Il prend revanche.
La récolte riche, la vallée fleurie
La buchane aux cheminées.
Le village tranquille,
Les enfants qui jouent au soleil.
Les cendres des arbres,
Les pierres de la terre étaient tous endeuillés.
Ce n’était rien qu’un rêve qu’on appelait la liberté.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2019/3/14 - 10:13
Language: English
English translation by the official site
Joseph Broussard, dit Beausoleil. Acadian pioneer and resistance fighter Joseph Broussard dit Beausoleil was born in Port-Royal, Acadia, in 1702. In 1740 he with his brother Alexandre established a community at Boundary Creek (above present day Moncton, New-Brunswick). During the 1755 expulsion, Broussard, his brother, and other Acadians evaded capture, conducting a guerilla campaign on land and sea against the British military. In 1759, however, Broussard and his partisans, facing starvation, were forced to surrender. Imprisoned at Halifax until 1764 when the treaty of Paris ended the French and Indian war, Beausoleil led one hundred ninety-three exiles to Saint Domingue (present-day Haiti). Member of the party was Beausoleil’s first cousin, Pierre Richard, direct ancestor of Zachary Richard. In February, 1765, the group arrived at New Orleans and continued onto the Attakapas region of south Louisiana. There, Joseph Broussard was named captain of the militia. He died on October 20, 1765 from an tropical disease which decimated the exile Acadian community in its first year in Louisiana. His gravesite remains unknown.
Joseph Broussard, dit Beausoleil. Acadian pioneer and resistance fighter Joseph Broussard dit Beausoleil was born in Port-Royal, Acadia, in 1702. In 1740 he with his brother Alexandre established a community at Boundary Creek (above present day Moncton, New-Brunswick). During the 1755 expulsion, Broussard, his brother, and other Acadians evaded capture, conducting a guerilla campaign on land and sea against the British military. In 1759, however, Broussard and his partisans, facing starvation, were forced to surrender. Imprisoned at Halifax until 1764 when the treaty of Paris ended the French and Indian war, Beausoleil led one hundred ninety-three exiles to Saint Domingue (present-day Haiti). Member of the party was Beausoleil’s first cousin, Pierre Richard, direct ancestor of Zachary Richard. In February, 1765, the group arrived at New Orleans and continued onto the Attakapas region of south Louisiana. There, Joseph Broussard was named captain of the militia. He died on October 20, 1765 from an tropical disease which decimated the exile Acadian community in its first year in Louisiana. His gravesite remains unknown.
THE BALLAD OF BEAUSOLEIL
The moon is full, we ride tonight with Beausoleil.
It will be light even in the deep wood.
Already the men are tired.
Last winter we could not even find shelter.
More and more, there is talk of Louisiane,
It was only a dream that we called l’Acadie.
Lance of fire, knife of love,
Looking into the eyes of a lover
To see only pain.
It would have been better if it had never happened
It was only a dream that we called love.
Battle for the blue of the sky,
A vulture fights a dove.
Rays of deadly flight,
Pointed talon, deadly beak.
As though all of our chances
Were already captive.
Like the pain with which you pierce me,
Like the love that we have found.
Blood of the dove in his talons,
The vulture’s mouth burns
Eyes filled with fear,
The dove trembles purely,
While in the highest sky, an eagle,
Fixes his wings for the descent,
In a gesture eternal,
He strikes with fire
And takes revenge.
The rich harvest, the valley in flower,
Smoke rising from the chimneys.
The tranquil village,
Children playing in the sun.
The ashes of the trees,
The stones of the earth were all in mourning,
It was but a dream that we called freedom.
The moon is full, we ride tonight with Beausoleil.
It will be light even in the deep wood.
Already the men are tired.
Last winter we could not even find shelter.
More and more, there is talk of Louisiane,
It was only a dream that we called l’Acadie.
Lance of fire, knife of love,
Looking into the eyes of a lover
To see only pain.
It would have been better if it had never happened
It was only a dream that we called love.
Battle for the blue of the sky,
A vulture fights a dove.
Rays of deadly flight,
Pointed talon, deadly beak.
As though all of our chances
Were already captive.
Like the pain with which you pierce me,
Like the love that we have found.
Blood of the dove in his talons,
The vulture’s mouth burns
Eyes filled with fear,
The dove trembles purely,
While in the highest sky, an eagle,
Fixes his wings for the descent,
In a gesture eternal,
He strikes with fire
And takes revenge.
The rich harvest, the valley in flower,
Smoke rising from the chimneys.
The tranquil village,
Children playing in the sun.
The ashes of the trees,
The stones of the earth were all in mourning,
It was but a dream that we called freedom.
Contributed by Dq82 - 2019/3/14 - 10:15
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Migration
Altra canzone tratta dal concept album nel quale racconta l'insediamento in Louisiana degli emigranti cajun dal Canada.
Questa è dedicata a Joseph Broussard detto Beausoleil, capo della resistenza acadiana alle deportazioni inglesi. Morì in Louisiana per una malattia tropicale.