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This popular French song, the Légende de Saint Nicolas, dates back to
the 16th century and is still sung by French children today. It tells the rather
gruesome story of St. Nicholas rescuing three children from an evil butcher. The
story, which was originally of three young men—traveling scholars, is told in
France of three young children (see illustrations from 1935). Here on
this page, they are shown as older children by 19th century artist E. de
Liphart. Music and an English text,
freely translated by poet James Henry Dixon, follow the original French.
Saint NICOLAS (La Légende de Saint Nicolas)
Ils étaient trois petits
enfants
Qui s'en allaient glaner aux
champs—
S'en vinr'nt un soir chez un
boucher:
"Boucher, voudrais-tu nous
coucher?"—
Entrez, entrez, petits
enfants,
Il y'a d'la place
assurément! . . .
Ils n'étaient pas sitôt entrés
Que le boucher les a tués,
Les a
coupés en p'tits morceaux,
Mis au saloir comme pourceaux.
Ils étaient, etc.
Saint Nicolas, au bout d'sept ans,
Vint à passer dedans ce champ,
Alla
frapper chez le boucher:
"Boucher, voudrais-tu me loger?"
Ils étaient, etc.
— Entrez, entrez, saint Nicolas,
Il y'a d'la place, il n'en
manq'pas."
Il n'était pas sitôt entré
Qu'il a demandé à souper.
Ils étaient, etc.
"Du p'tit salé je veux avoir
Qu'il y a sept ans qu'est dans
l'saloir."
Quand le boucher entendit ça,
Hors de la porte il s'enfuya.
Ils étaient, etc.
"Boucher, boucher, ne t'enfuis pas;
Repens-toi, Dieu
t'pardonnera."
Saint Nicolas alla s'asseoir
Dessus le bord de ce
saloir.
Ils étaient, etc.
"Petits enfants qui dormez là,
Je suis le grand saint Nicolas."
Et le
saint étendit trois doigts.
Les p'tits se lèvent tous les trois.
Ils étaient, etc.
The Legend of Saint
Nicholas
freely translated from the French
Three little children sought the plain
Gleaners of the golden
grain.
They lingered past the angel-song,
And dewy shadows swept
along.
'Mid the silence of the wood
The butcher's lonely cottage
stood,
"Butcher! lodge us for the night,
Lodge us till the morning
light."
"Enter in, ye children small,
I can find a place for all."
The butcher seized a knife straitway,
And did the little creatures
slay.
He put them in a tub of brine,
In pieces small as they were
swine.
St. Nicholas, at seven years end,
His way did to the forest wend.
He
sought the butcher's cottage drear:
"Butcher! I would rest me here!"
"Enter! enter, St. Nicholas!
You are welcome, St. Nicholas!
Enter!
enter, St. Nicholas!
There's place for you the night to pass."
Scarce had
the Saint his entrance made,
He would the supper board was laid.
"Will you have of ham a slice?"
"I will not, for it is not nice!"
"Of
this veal you'll take a bit?"
"No! I do not relish it."
"Give me of the little swine,
For seven long years have laid in
brine!"
The butcher caught the words he said,
And forthwith from the
portal fled.
"Butcher! butcher! do not flee,
Repent and God will pardon thee!"
St. Nicholas the tub drew near,
And lo! he placed three fingers
there.
The first one said, "I sweetly rest!"
The second said, "I too am
blest!"
The third replied, "Tis well with me,
In Paradise I seem to
be!"
Freely translated from the French by English
poet James Henry Dixon (1803–1876), Centro Studi
Nicolaiani, Bari, Itlay, 1983. Used by permission.
A 17th century version of this song
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