Songs
Toréador
FP 11
Toréador
Pépita reine de VeniseQuand tu vas sous ton miradorTous les gondoliers se disent:Prends garde... Toréador!Sur ton cœur personne ne règneDans le grand palais où tu dorsEt près de toi la vieille duègneGuette le Toréador.Toréador brave des bravesLorsque sur la place Saint marcLe taureau en fureur qui baveTombe tué par ton poignard.Ce n’est pas l’orgueil qui caresseTon coeur sous la baouta d’orCar pour une jeune déesseTu brûles Toréador.Belle EspagnoleDans ta gondoleTu caracolesCarmencitaSous ta mantilleOeil qui pétilleBouche qui brilleC’est Pépita.C’est demain jour de Saint EscureQu’aura lieu le combat à mortLe canal est plein de voituresFêtant le Toréador!De Venise plus d’une bellePalpite pour savoir ton sortMais tu méprises leurs dentellesTu souffres Toréador.Car ne voyant pas apparaître.Caché derrière un oranger,Pépita seule à sa fenêtreTu médites de te venger,Sous ton caftan passe ta dagueLa jalousie au coeur te mordEt seul avec le bruit des vaguesTu pleures toréador.Que de cavaliers! que de monde!Remplit l’arène jusqu’au bordOn vient de cent lieues à la rondeT’acclamer Toréador!C’est fait il entre dans l’arèneAvec plus de flegme qu’un lord.Mais il peut avancer a peineLe pauvre Toréador.Il ne reste à son rêve morneQue de mourir sous tous les yeuxEn sentant pénétrer des cornesDans son triste front soucieuxCar Pépita se montre assiseOffrant son regard et son corpsAu plus vieux doge de VeniseEt rit du toréador.
Toreador
Pépita, queen of Venice,when you appear at your mirador,all the gondoliers say:Look out—Toreador!Nobody rules over your heartin the great palace where you sleep,and near you the old duennalooks out for the Toreador.Toreador, bravest of the brave,when, on Saint Mark’s squarethe furious bull, foaming at the mouth,falls to the ground, killed by your dagger,It is not pride which swellsyour heart beneath your cape of gold—it is for a young goddessthat you burn, Toreador.Spanish beauty,in your gondolayou preen yourself,Carmencita!Beneath your mantilla,your eyes sparkleyour lips shimmer,it’s Pépita!Tomorrow, on Saint Escure’s day,a fight to the death will take place,the canal is full of vesselscheering on the Toreador!More than one fair Venetian lasstrembles to know your fate,but you scorn their finery,you suffer, Toreador.For, since you have not seen,hidden behind an orange tree,Pépita alone at her window,you contemplate revenge.You feel the dagger beneath your caftan,jealousy gnaws at your heartand alone with the sound of the wavesyou weep, Toreador.The horsemen! The throng!Filling the arena to the brim!They’ve come from miles aroundto cheer you on, Toreador!It begins! He enters the arena,calmer than a lord,but the poor Toreadorcan hardly move.All that’s left of his dreary dreamis to die before the crowd,as he feels the horns piercehis sad and worried brow—For Pépita is sitting there,offering her looks and her bodyto the oldest doge of Venice,laughing at the Toreador.
Translations by Richard Stokes, author of A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)
If you would like to use our texts and translations, please click here for more information.
Composer
Francis Jean Marcel Poulenc (F7 January 1899 – 30 January 1963) was a French composer and pianist. His compositions include mélodies, solo piano works, chamber music, choral pieces, operas, ballets, and orchestral concert music.
Read the full Wikipedia article here.
See Full Entry
Poet
Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau was a French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist and critic.
See Full Entry
Sorry, no further description available.
Toréador
Pépita reine de Venise
Quand tu vas sous ton mirador
Tous les gondoliers se disent:
Prends garde... Toréador!
Sur ton cœur personne ne règne
Dans le grand palais où tu dors
Et près de toi la vieille duègne
Guette le Toréador.
Toréador brave des braves
Lorsque sur la place Saint marc
Le taureau en fureur qui bave
Tombe tué par ton poignard.
Ce n’est pas l’orgueil qui caresse
Ton coeur sous la baouta d’or
Car pour une jeune déesse
Tu brûles Toréador.
Belle Espagnole
Dans ta gondole
Tu caracoles
Carmencita
Sous ta mantille
Oeil qui pétille
Bouche qui brille
C’est Pépita.
C’est demain jour de Saint Escure
Qu’aura lieu le combat à mort
Le canal est plein de voitures
Fêtant le Toréador!
De Venise plus d’une belle
Palpite pour savoir ton sort
Mais tu méprises leurs dentelles
Tu souffres Toréador.
Car ne voyant pas apparaître.
Caché derrière un oranger,
Pépita seule à sa fenêtre
Tu médites de te venger,
Sous ton caftan passe ta dague
La jalousie au coeur te mord
Et seul avec le bruit des vagues
Tu pleures toréador.
Que de cavaliers! que de monde!
Remplit l’arène jusqu’au bord
On vient de cent lieues à la ronde
T’acclamer Toréador!
C’est fait il entre dans l’arène
Avec plus de flegme qu’un lord.
Mais il peut avancer a peine
Le pauvre Toréador.
Il ne reste à son rêve morne
Que de mourir sous tous les yeux
En sentant pénétrer des cornes
Dans son triste front soucieux
Car Pépita se montre assise
Offrant son regard et son corps
Au plus vieux doge de Venise
Et rit du toréador.
Toreador
Pépita, queen of Venice,
when you appear at your mirador,
all the gondoliers say:
Look out—Toreador!
Nobody rules over your heart
in the great palace where you sleep,
and near you the old duenna
looks out for the Toreador.
Toreador, bravest of the brave,
when, on Saint Mark’s square
the furious bull, foaming at the mouth,
falls to the ground, killed by your dagger,
It is not pride which swells
your heart beneath your cape of gold—
it is for a young goddess
that you burn, Toreador.
Spanish beauty,
in your gondola
you preen yourself,
Carmencita!
Beneath your mantilla,
your eyes sparkle
your lips shimmer,
it’s Pépita!
Tomorrow, on Saint Escure’s day,
a fight to the death will take place,
the canal is full of vessels
cheering on the Toreador!
More than one fair Venetian lass
trembles to know your fate,
but you scorn their finery,
you suffer, Toreador.
For, since you have not seen,
hidden behind an orange tree,
Pépita alone at her window,
you contemplate revenge.
You feel the dagger beneath your caftan,
jealousy gnaws at your heart
and alone with the sound of the waves
you weep, Toreador.
The horsemen! The throng!
Filling the arena to the brim!
They’ve come from miles around
to cheer you on, Toreador!
It begins! He enters the arena,
calmer than a lord,
but the poor Toreador
can hardly move.
All that’s left of his dreary dream
is to die before the crowd,
as he feels the horns pierce
his sad and worried brow—
For Pépita is sitting there,
offering her looks and her body
to the oldest doge of Venice,
laughing at the Toreador.
If you would like to use our texts and translations, please click here for more information.
Composer
Francis Jean Marcel Poulenc (F7 January 1899 – 30 January 1963) was a French composer and pianist. His compositions include mélodies, solo piano works, chamber music, choral pieces, operas, ballets, and orchestral concert music.
Read the full Wikipedia article here.
See Full Entry
Poet
Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau was a French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist and critic.
See Full Entry
Sorry, no further description available.
About Oxford Lieder
Oxford Lieder is one of the world's leading promoters of song and the winner of a prestigious Royal Philharmonic Society Award. The focal point of each year is the two-week Oxford Lieder Festival in October.
Find out More