The gulls

A brig was being readied for the sea in one of the ports of Nantes,

and weeping women, mothers and sweethearts,

wandered on the rocks beside the sea.

Dancing in a ring, they sang this tune.

This morning at high tide,

the lads of Croizic

will be embarking on their brig.

Sisters, let us sing on the shore.

Gulls, gulls,

bring back our sweethearts.

Thousands of white birds flew over the waves,

from the land to the ship, from the sailors to the women.

Back and forth they whirled

over the plaintive round and among the flags.

Gulls, guide our dear sailors

to the Spanish ports

and speak to them, on the waves,

of the Breton girls.

Gulls, gulls,

bring back our sweethearts.

The brig spreads its sails. Adieu! The anchor is raised.

Off they go to another land.

The faithful birds followed, but alas!

The women stretched out their arms to the sea in vain.

Follow, follow their voyage,

to Spain or wherever else they may go.

Don't fear their guns,

white-feathered friends.

Gulls, gulls,

bring back our sweethearts.