For those who'd like to know what all this means, here is the more or less literal translation (you must now know that I never was a poet!)

My beloved is going to leave,
He's going to La Rochelle.
What will I do here alone?
O! Cruel army!
What will I do? I'm going to die
Far from my faithful heart.

Beauty, spirit, my shepherd
Had plenty of them.
Lovely waist and good manner (= he was looking very good!)
When he stood in a dance.
He was the flower of the shepherds
There wasn't one like him in France.

On the morning the lots were drawn*
He told me "Pretty,
To serve my lord the king
I'd have great joy
If it weren't for your grief
That makes me die from anger"

While kissing me, he told me
With tearful eyes,
"Remember your servant
Who's going to be a soldier
To deserve your love.
God! What sad alarms!" (?)


*At that time, lots were drawn for young men to be enlisted –for 7 years. They drew a good or bad number but rich young men who drew a bad number could pay someone else to be enlisted in their stead. Plus ça change….