FINISTÈRE
Hurrah! I’m off to Finistère, to Finistère, to Finistère;
My satchel’s swinging on my back, my staff is in my hand;
I’ve twenty louis in my purse, I know the sun and sea are there,
And so I’m starting out to-day to tramp the golden land.
I’ll go alone and glorying, with on my lips a song of joy;
I’ll leave behind the city with its canker and its care;
I’ll swing along so sturdily–oh, won’t I be the happy boy!
A-singing on the rocky roads, the roads of Finistère.
Oh, have you been to Finistère, and do you know a whin-gray town
That echoes to the clatter of a thousand wooden shoes?
And have you seen the fisher-girls go galivantin’ up and down,
And watched the tawny boats go out, and heard the roaring crews?
Oh, would you sit with pipe and bowl, and dream upon some sunny quay,
Or would you walk the windy heath and drink the cooler air;
