Oh, would you seek a cradled cove and tussle with the topaz sea!–
Pack up your kit to-morrow, lad, and haste to Finistère.
Oh, I will go to Finistère, there’s nothing that can hold me back.
I’ll laugh with Yves and Léon, and I’ll chaff with Rose and Jeanne;
I’ll seek the little, quaint buvette that’s kept by Mother Merdrinac,
Who wears a cap of many frills, and swears just like a man.
I’ll yarn with hearty, hairy chaps who dance and leap and crack their heels;
Who swallow cupfuls of cognac and never turn a hair;
I’ll watch the nut-brown boats come in with mullet, plaice and conger eels,
The jeweled harvest of the sea they reap in Finistère.
Yes, I’ll come back from Finistère with memories of shining days,
Of scaly nets and salty men in overalls of brown;
Of ancient women knitting as they watch the tethered cattle graze
By little nestling beaches where the gorse goes blazing down;
Of headlands silvering the sea, of Calvarys against the sky,
