My Sunday bonnet

One Sunday fine we all set out

To gather some fresh strawberries;

And as master Paul came with us

With joy my heart went beating fast.

Soon in the green wood of Clamart

Two by two the lot of us enter'd.

I was close to Paul by mere chance.

He offered me his arm in silence.

That arm trembled much, I could feel;

In his eyes I perceived his passion.

He desired to speak, but his lips

Both shook, so that no word could pass.

I was wearing my nicest dress;

At eighteen years to be a flirt

Is not forbid;

And to show off my new white roses,

I had put on

my pretty and neat Sunday bonnet.

After an hour in the wide wood,

Far from the others, all dispersed,

I knew for the very first time

That I occupied all his thoughts.

He loved me true! O happy day!

The birds sang with their strongest voices;

One long continued hum of love

Could be heard all through radiant nature.

The air was warm; we both were tired.

(Just fancy how all this enslaves us!)

We sat under an old oak tree.

My goodness! I was not aware,

He whispered low, that he loved me!

And I replied that I loved him,

With timid voice.

And I had fastened on the branches,

Most carefully

My pretty and neat Sunday bonnet.

He told me then how one fine night

His ardent love for me began,

That I was his life and his hope.

His warm lips were touching my ears;

I felt upset, and from my heart

Burst out a low cry of alarm.

I rose up quick, I was afraid;

I wished to break the fairy charm;

I hastened then to get my hat,

But 'pon my word, I could not

For there I saw a sight so lovely

I coudl not a step farther go:

In the bonnet, crouching, hearing

nothing outside, billing like lovers

without a pause,

Were two small birds beneath the branches,

Who used as nest

My pretty and neat Sunday bonnet!

O! naughty and sweet little birds!

It was you that caused all the scolding

Received by the poor turtle doves

When they went home late that same evening.

Paul married me; and both of us

Remember, though long years have passed,

Always the memory so dear

Of the birds that were making love.

Ev'ry springtime as in the past,

We sit again under the oaktree,

And Paul, to make the mem'ry clearer,

Has but to whisper in my ear:

"It was here, my wife, and my darling,

That your dear heart did to my passion

Give itself up,

Thanks to the nest beneath the branches,

So crumpled up

your pretty and neat Sunday bonnet!