Chants d’Au­vergne (Eng­lish: Songs from the Auvergne) is a col­lec­tion of folk songs from the Auvergne region of France, arranged for sopra­no and orches­tra by French com­pos­er and musi­col­o­gist Joseph Can­teloube in the 1920s. The songs are in the local lan­guage, Occ­i­tan (also known as Langue d’Oc, hence the name of the for­mer province of south­ern France, Langue­doc). Canteloube’s fam­i­ly had deep roots in the Auvergne region, and his arrange­ments are a labour of love borne from an eager­ness to immor­talise the folk­lore and beau­ty of his home region.

The best-known of Canteloube’s col­lec­tion is Baïlèro, and this record­ing, by the Span­ish sopra­no, Vic­to­ria de los Ánge­les, is sure­ly the most beau­ti­ful­ly deliv­ered ver­sion of it.

The song is aching­ly wist­ful. It evokes a sense of long­ing, for what — home­land, lost love, lost youth? — it mat­ters not. Vic­to­ria de los Ánge­les speaks direct­ly to the heart of the lis­ten­er and per­haps her Cata­lan back­ground, con­nect­ed as it is with the peas­ant tra­di­tions of the wider area some­times known as Occ­i­ta­nia, lends itself to the rus­tic charm.

I heard it years ago on a com­pi­la­tion CD and fell for it instant­ly. I feel the sense of land­scape, of affin­i­ty with one’s roots, of being con­nect­ed to one’s envi­ron­ment, and at the same time the plain­tive feel­ing of sep­a­ra­tion and yearn­ing that per­vades the piece. It all adds up to a well­spring of emo­tion­al pow­er.

I only recent­ly looked up the Occ­i­tan words and their Eng­lish trans­la­tion; they are pas­toral in tone (unsur­pris­ing giv­en that they are peas­ant folk-songs), and fea­ture a call-and-response pat­tern between the singer and her shep­herd love.  Of course, it doesn’t mat­ter what the lyrics are; it is the feel of the music and the voice that count, but to some extent the sense of long­ing and sep­a­ra­tion is cor­rob­o­rat­ed by the lyric:

Pas­tré, dè dèlaï l’aïo, as gaïré dé boun tèms?
Dio lou baïlèro lèro, lèro, lèro, lèro, baïlèro, lô!
È n’aï pa gaïre, è dio, tu?
Baïlèro lèro, lèro, lèro, lèro, baïlèro, lô!

Pas­tré, lou prat faï flour, li cal
Gor­da toun troupel!
Dio lou baïlèro lèro, lèro, lèro, lèro, baïlèro, lô!
L’erb es pu fin’ ol prat d’oï­ci!
Baïlèro lèro, lèro, lèro, lèro, baïlèro, lô!

Pas­tré, couci foraï, en obal io lou bel riou!
Dio lou baïlèro lèro, lèro, lèro, lèro, baïlèro, lô!
Es pèromè, té baô çir­ca!
Baïlèro lèro, lèro, lèro, lèro, baïlèro, lô!

The Eng­lish trans­la­tion is way too lit­er­al and thus clumsy…so these are just a “rough guide” and it is best left to the orig­i­nal!

Shep­herd, on the oth­er side of the water,
Have you much good time?
Tell me the bailèro lèro,
Lèro lèro lèro lèro bailèro lô.

Shep­herd the mead­ow is flow­ered,
Come and keep your herd.
Tell me the bailèro lèro,
Lèro lèro lèro lèro bailèro lô.

Shep­herd how shall I do,
Down there is the big stream!
Tell me the bailèro lèro,
Lèro lèro lèro lèro bailèro lô.

Best lis­tened to with eyes closed, feet up, in a qui­et, pleas­ant envi­ron­ment, and a large glass of wine in hand. Enjoy…