At the top of Saint-Vincent street, a poet and a stranger,
Loved each other for a moment, but he never saw her again.
This song, he composed, hoping that his stranger,
One spring morning will hear it somewhere on a street corner.

The moon too pale places a diadem on your red hair.
The moon too red, splashes glory on your full of holes petticoat.

The moon too pale caresses the opal of your jaded eyes.
Princess of the street, be welcome in my wounded heart.

CHORUS
The stairs of the Butte are hard for the poor;
The wings of the mills protect the lovers.

Little beggar girl, I feel your little hand looking for mine;
I feel your chest and your slim waist, I forget my sorrow.

I feel on your lip a feverish smell
Of poorly fed child and under your caress,
I feel a drunkenness that annihilates me.

CHORUS
The stairs of the Butte are hard for the poor;
The wings of the mills protect the lovers.

But there it floats, the moon trots
The princess too under the moonless sky,
I cry to the mist my vanished dream!

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