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If I speak it, in the heart of day,
In my country, with my own, as
In the great century every gentleman
Spoke it to the court abbots,
It is… Only out of love.
This old-fashioned French that we disdain,
It is native to a high Poitou
And to a distant Paris too.
These terms, which the thatch teaches,
Are terms of Montaigne.
The local word, very clear, is heard;
It shocks the purist’s ear;
Despite all, how it pairs,
And how it agrees yet
With the speech of yesteryear.
The inhabitant, they say, jabbers.
Does the inhabitant speak patois? That is false.
He brings back to light jewels
That often are incrusted with patina
And the illustrious Latin rust.
Hear the speech of the hamlet:
It flows as from the eaves
Flow the natural saps;
It flows to the lips like the water
Of maples in springtime.
But when the emotion of a heart animates it,
This old French, it is everything at home;
Under its harsh and gentle aspects,
This language simple and sublime,
It is the whole intimate homeland.
If paper suffers it here,
Oh! it is because of the victory
Of the patriots of history!
If I still speak it thus,
To God, great grace and great thanks!
During three centuries in a row,
The first language of the soil
Has struggled without fear and without guile.
Despite squall and sleet,
Honor and right have spoken it.
The word of the native bell tower
Has kept all its power,
And the old spirit of France
Pursues the ancient royal road
Toward the great depths of the ideal.
Charles-Nérée Beauchemin
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-the-old-speech-charles-neree-beauchemin/