Le menetrier de Meudon.
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
'Twas in the time of Rabelais,
Where elms in rows were growing,
Guilain set mothers, daughters, cits,
Clodpoles, and pages going
The bigots all got up a cry
Of " witchcraft! " — just in spite,
Declaring that he made the wolves
Dance on a moonlit night
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Possessed of charm, or not — through him
All fall to dancing madly,
Young folk who dote upon a dance,
Old folk who take it badly
'Tis said that once — don't laugh — so well
His tuneful bow he plied,
That he kept dancing till the morn
A bridegroom and his bride
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Beneath his window chanced to pass
A funeral train, one day;
The priest and all the followers heard
His violin at play
It sets them jigging — prayer gives way
Before that joyous sound:
And dancing all about the corpse,
They reach the burial ground.
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
He gets a summons to the Court,
Poor chap, and duly minds it:
How the gold sparkles there! how gay
A groggery he finds it!
There, velvet, pearls, and rubies shine —
Kings, princes, and princesses —
All things save honest love are there —
All, up to sly caresses
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
He plays; the courtiers sneer, although
He takes the greatest pains;
For sprightliness will lose its hold
Where'er ambition reigns:
And many a dancer of quadrilles
Has this upon his lip —
" The more the polish on the floor,
The more one's apt to slip! "
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Good Heavens! they're yawning all — oh! rage —
Guilain despairing flies
Back to Meudon, and 'mid the tears
Of all the village dies.
At night his shade returns — hark! hark!
Those distant tones advancing
Through the thick woods! — Guilain is there,
To set hobgoblins dancing!
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
'Twas in the time of Rabelais,
Where elms in rows were growing,
Guilain set mothers, daughters, cits,
Clodpoles, and pages going
The bigots all got up a cry
Of " witchcraft! " — just in spite,
Declaring that he made the wolves
Dance on a moonlit night
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Possessed of charm, or not — through him
All fall to dancing madly,
Young folk who dote upon a dance,
Old folk who take it badly
'Tis said that once — don't laugh — so well
His tuneful bow he plied,
That he kept dancing till the morn
A bridegroom and his bride
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Beneath his window chanced to pass
A funeral train, one day;
The priest and all the followers heard
His violin at play
It sets them jigging — prayer gives way
Before that joyous sound:
And dancing all about the corpse,
They reach the burial ground.
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
He gets a summons to the Court,
Poor chap, and duly minds it:
How the gold sparkles there! how gay
A groggery he finds it!
There, velvet, pearls, and rubies shine —
Kings, princes, and princesses —
All things save honest love are there —
All, up to sly caresses
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
He plays; the courtiers sneer, although
He takes the greatest pains;
For sprightliness will lose its hold
Where'er ambition reigns:
And many a dancer of quadrilles
Has this upon his lip —
" The more the polish on the floor,
The more one's apt to slip! "
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!
Good Heavens! they're yawning all — oh! rage —
Guilain despairing flies
Back to Meudon, and 'mid the tears
Of all the village dies.
At night his shade returns — hark! hark!
Those distant tones advancing
Through the thick woods! — Guilain is there,
To set hobgoblins dancing!
Dance, dance, the fiddler of Meudon
Is playing you a tune!
Up, up, obey him! he's the king
That rules the rigadoon!