The Party at the City Hall

Poem by Michel Altaroche Period 19th century

June 19, 1837

Come quickly to our splendid celebrations!
Here banquets, there concerts, elsewhere balls.
Diamonds sparkle on the heads,
Wine reddens the crystal cups.
This haughty luxury that everywhere unfolds,
The people will pay for it in pennies.
City officials, drive the crowd away.
Let’s amuse ourselves!

What a beautiful feast! precious and rare dishes,
Each morsel obtained at a golden price,
Wines haggled from the most miserly vintages
And that time has sealed with its stamp…
What is that noise?… – Nothing, it’s a proletarian
Dying of hunger a few steps from you.
– A dead man?… How unfortunate! Have him buried.
Let’s get drunk!

Here are fruits that in autumn
Summer steals at great cost for these meals:
There, it’s the Ay whose foamy mousse
Follows the cork that pops with a crash…
What is it?… a firecracker from the eternal rage
Of the factious? – No, no, rest assured!
A merchant blows his brains out…
Let’s get drunk!

Duprez begins… O suave marvels!
Gay guests, leave your place settings.
Now is the bouquet for the ears;
We’re going to sing for a thousand crowns’ worth of verses.
What plaintive tune comes even into this hall?…
Guard, alert! Drag to prison all
This beggar who sings a lament…
Let’s get drunk!

Women, to the ball! The dance calls you;
Hear the chords of the violins.
But a voice from above calls out to us.
Tremble! tremble! you are dancing on the dead
This cursed ground that your waltz brushes,
The gravedigger trod it before us…”
So much the better! the earth is softer under our feet.
Wiggle away!

Let’s chase far away this gloomy image
That comes to halt the flight of pleasure.
Already pales under another cloud
Our horizon of finery and gold.
It’s Waterloo… By Jove, what does it matter to us!
When the foreigner had drawn the bolts,
We were seen entering through this door…
Wiggle away!

So, is our party perhaps brilliant?
It cost nine hundred twenty thousand francs.
What remains of it? Nothing… on a window,
At daybreak, dying lanterns.
When the sun lights up space,
A hundred pieces of furniture will be sold under it.
Quick, make way for bailiffs, carriages…
Let’s move away!

Michel Altaroche

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-party-at-the-city-hall-michel-altaroche/