Accueil > Les poêmes de W.B.Yeats > The ballad of Moll Magee

The ballad of Moll Magee

La ballade de Moll Magee - W.B. YEATS - tir du recueil "Crossways"

mardi 25 mars 2008, par Jean Pierre Lebossé

Sortez vos mouchoir pour cette chanson : c’est la plus triste… mais la plus belle…
C’est l’histoire d’une mère, femme de Marin pêcheur, qui arasée par sa journée de dur labeur s’endort sur son bébé et le retrouve froid au matin, mort d’étouffement. Elle est chassée par son mari et erre de masure en masure, pour trouver à vivre sous les railleries méchantes des enfants qui se moquent d’elle déjà accablée par ce drame, et qui les supplie de plaindre un pauvre femme…Je vous l’avais dit, elle est vraiment triste, mais elle est vraiment trop belle…

La ballade de Moll Magee

Come round me little childer,there don’t fling stones at me,

Because I mutter as I go ;But pitty Moll Magee.

My man was a poor fisher,with shore lines in the say,

My work was salting’ herrings, the whole of the long day.

And sometimes from the saltin’ shed,I scarce could drag my feet,

Under the blessed moolight, along the pebbly street.

I’d always been but weakly, and my baby was just born ;

A neighbour minded her by day, I minded her till morn.

I lay upon my baby ;ye little childer dear,

I looked on my cold baby,when the morn grew frosty and clear.

A weary woman sleeps so hard !My man grew red and pale,

And gave me money, bade me go to my own place Kinsale.

He drove me out and shut the door, and gave his curse to me ;

I went away in silence, no neighbour could I see.

Windows and doors where shut, one star shone faint and green,

The little straws were turning’ round accross the bare boreen.

I went away in silence : Beyond old Martin’s byre

I saw a kindly neighbour, blowing her morning fire.

She drew from me my story, My money’s all used up,

And still, with pityin’,scorning eye, she gives me bite and sup.

She says my man will surely come and fetch me home again ;

But always, as I’m moving round, without door or within,

Pilling the wood or pilin’ the turf, or goin’ to the well,

I’m thinkin’ of my baby and keenin’ to myself :

And sometimes I am sure she knows, when openin’ wide His door,

God lights the stars, His candles, and look upon the poor.

So now, ye little childer, ye won’t fling stones at me ;

But gather with your shinin’ looks, and pity Moll Magee.