Poor Martin: Day of the Worker (May 1st)

With a spade over his shoulder,

With a sweet song on his lips,

With a sweet song on his lips,

With great courage in his soul.

He went to slave away in the fields.

Poor Martin, wretched poverty,

Digging the earth, digs away time.

One of my favorite troubadours of all time died in 1981 when I was just about to track him down in Sete, southern France. This crusty old coot, Georges Brassens, left behind a treasure trove of entrancing songs that always thrill. In fact, his word play in songs such as the present tune Pauvre Martin (posted here), always get me back into studying French. In honor of the First of May and the most wretched workers of the world, I present this translation in English of the song. I hope you like it. If you would like a Spanish translation, follow this link (http://www.brassensenespanol.net/pauvre_martin.html) where Brassens fan Jesús Álvarez has rendered all of this singer songwriter's works in Spanish. 

http://youtu.be/_B2Sdler8Q8

To earn his daily bread,

From break of dawn to setting sun,

From break of dawn to setting sun,

He went off to dig the ground,

Everywhere, in any weather.

Poor Martin, wretched poverty,

Digging the earth, digs away time.

Without a trace in his expression

Of resentment or bitterness,

Of resentment or bitterness,

He tills other people's fields

Shoveling, always shoveling,

Poor Martin, wretched poverty,

Digging the earth, digs away time.

And when death beckons

For him to work his final fields,

For him to work his final fields,

He dug his own grave,

Doing it quickly hiding away.

Poor Martin, wretched poverty,

Digging the earth, digs away time.

He dug his own grave,

Almost hidden from view.

Almost hidden from view.

Then lay himself in there without a word

So as not to disturb another soul.

Poor Martin, wretched poverty,

Sleeps below ground, buried by time.