Fire, Fire, Fire burning gold,
Better get those waggon wheels a-turnin’,
Fire, Fire, Fire in the hold,
Better get a bucket boys, she’s burnin’.

The devil himself is shippin’ to sea,
He’s settin’ out to follow me,
He’s got his black flag flowin’ free,
The devil himself is shippin’ to sea!

Fire, Fire, Fire burning gold,
Better get those waggon wheels a-turnin’,
Fire, Fire, Fire in the hold,
Better get a bucket boys, she’s burnin’.

You’ll be you and I’ll be meLike water to a flameBut in the end I guess we’re all the same
So light a fire and burn through all the sufferingBlack is the nightBut you don’t need to let that darkness in
\Who is they? And who is us?Ain’t no use in fightingCause one day soon our bodies will be dust
Hallelujah, we’re all singing hallelujahWouldn’t it be better if we all came togetherCarrying each other through todayNothing in our way

Tu n’as pas su m’aimerComme l’on doit aimerEst-ce un refrain de poète
Qui t’a fait perdre la tête
?Le temps passe et pourtantMalgré moi je t’attendsEt dans Montmartre la nuit
Levant les yeux je me dis
:
Tant que tournerontLes ailes en rond,Du Moulin de la GaletteMon cœur chantera,Comme auprès de toi,La chanson des jours de fêteQuand dans le faubourgLes yeux pleins d’amourSur moi tu posais la têteQu'elles sont joliesBrillant dans la nuitLes ailes du Paradis

Depuis ce jour mauditJe traîne dans ParisEt dans le moindre visage

Je recherche ton imageLes jours semblent si longsQu' au fil des rues sans nom
Si le cafard me chahuteJe regarde vers la Butte

English translation :
Moulin de La Galette
You couldn’t love meLike you should
Is it with the poet’s refrainThat you lost your head?Time goes by and stillI wait for you despite myselfAnd in Montmartre at nightRaising my eyes I say to myself:
As long as
Windmill blades of the of the Moulin de La Galette
shall turnMy heart will singLike when I am near youThe song of the feast daysWhen in the faubourgEyes full of loveYou leant your head on mineHow pretty they areShining in the nightThese wings of Paradise
Since this accursed dayI roam the streets of ParisAnd every faceI seek your reflectionThese days seem so longthat on street after nameless streetIf the blues takes holdI look toward la Butte (of Montmartre)