Complainte De La Butte is a french song written by a poet admiring a young french lady with red hair. Through the song, he expresses how he can see her and that there really is a think such of love at first sight. The woman he sees however is a prostitute at the Moulin Rouge. However he still believes that she's much more than that and if she would just say the word, a new life with him could free her of her bondage as a creature of the underworld. It is a beautiful song of love and truth.
Yes, there is a part that refers to the young ladies bussoms, but it is completely innocent and...the french are just like that sometimes. Please, do not take it the wrong way.
La lune trop blême
Pose un diadème
Sur tes cheveux roux
La lune trop rousse
De gloire éclabousse
Ton jupon plein d'trous
La lune trop pâle
Caresse l'opale
De tes yeux blasés
Princesse de la rue
Soit la bienvenue
Dans mon cœur brisé
The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the Moulin shelter you and I
Ma p'tite mandigote
Je sens ta menotte
Qui cherche ma main
Je sens ta poitrine
Et ta taille fine
J'oublie mon chagrin
Je sens sur tes lèvres
Une odeur de fièvre
De gosse mal nourri
Et sous ta caresse
Je sens une ivresse
Qui m'anéantit
The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh
While windmill wings of the Moulin shelter you and I
Et voilà quelle trotte
La lune qui flotte
La princesse aussi
Mes rêves épanouis
Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux
Les ailes du moulin protègent les amoureux
The moon, all too fair, in your russet-red hair sets a sparkling crown
The moon, all too red with glory, is spread on your poor, tattered gown
The moon, all too white, caresses the light in your world-weary eyes
Princess of the street, do allow me to greet you, my broken heart cries
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
I feel, beggar-girl, your fetters, they curl as they seek out my wrists
I feel your young breasts, your thin little waist
I lose my regrets
I taste on your mouth the feverish breath of a half-starving waif
And with your caress I sense drunkenness erasing my life
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
And see how she skips, the moon how she drifts,
The princess in tow
My reveries grow
The steps of Montmartre, all uphill, are hardest on
the poor
The sails of the mill, like wings, shelter all paramours
