Thy song is like a lemon tree;
Lyon ly! the golden air!
Art thou not of Gascony?
It burgeoneth so merrily
And of blossom is not bare:
And it chaunteth, lyon ly,
Lyon ly, et lon lon laire.
Thy lay is like the flying swan;
Ly, lon lon, l’estrangère,
Thou are fair to look upon!
Where might man thy singing con,
So to kill his every care?
Lyon ly, et lon lon lon,
Lyon ly, et lon lon laire.
Thy song sounded right hardily;
Lyon ly, the lovely fair!
And thou lookest scornfully.
Art thou not of Gascony?
Certes not of other-where!
Well, farewell; et lyon ly,
Lyon ly, et lon lon laire.
1917.