He will certainly be married today. It should have been yesterday.
In his gala attire he was ready. He was only waiting for his fiancée.
She has not come. She cannot be long.
Magnificent, he walks with the demeanor of an Indian prince,
bearing about him the customary rich gifts.

Love enhances the brilliance of his colors and his crest trembles like a lyre. The fiancée
does not come. He mounts to the top of the roof and looks toward the sun. He utters his
fiendish cry: Léon! Léon!

It is thus that he calls his fiancée. He sees nothing coming and no one replies. The fowls
who are accustomed to him never even raise their heads. They are tired of admiring him.
He descends again into the courtyard so sure of his beauty that he is incapable of
resentment. His marriage will take place tomorrow.

And not knowing what to do for the rest of the day, he turns toward the flight of steps. He
ascends as though they were the steps of a temple, with an official tread. He spreads open
his tail, heavy with all the eyes that could not leave it. Once more he repeats the ceremony.

Texts by Jules Renard
Translations by Winifred Radford in The Interpretation of French Song by Pierre Bernac