SONG PROSPECTUS FOR THE WORKS OF THE SINGER .

The poor Émile spent as a shadow,
Shadow cheerful and dear to good living.
His tunes you gays equal in number,
Acacia flowers qu'eparpillent winds.
Debraux ten years reigned on the spree,
Mit organ train and the choirs of suburbs
And rolling king, in the tavern tavern,
The poor people he sang love.

Still a child, gay to be envied,
In stunned pushed towards pleasure;
Giggling to see life flow
As a wine barrel smashed;
Whistling fool under the cross he discovers
Or in his chariot great harm strengthened;
Without inquiring where it rises to the Louvre,
Poor people has remained a friend.

But, you say, so he rents?
Eh! No, gentlemen, he lived in the attic.
Time, noise intoxicating parties,
Rasped, rasped the habit of the singer.
Winter came, and the wood was missing from the hearth;
The window in the north sparkling flowers;
He shivered, but his muse sports
Poor people would dry tears.

Eye kings were counted tears;
The eyes of the people have too much for it.
France then crying luster weapons
And magnitudes whose prices shook it.
Your voice, Emile, evoking our history,
Cabaret ennobles echoes.
It was the asylum where hiding glory.
Poor people love both heroes!

Although young, alas! he descends into the pit
I drove that old I'll go tomorrow.
Singing away, drinkers false voice,
Black thoughts plucked off the road.
It was his songs that said their intoxication
Songs that their son will rejuvenate well.
Its passage is there a king who leaves
The poor people a sweet memory?

Family alleviate destitution;
Rich and great, buy this book.
A mind so go negligence:
Ah! talent need is the pitfall.
Do not be ungrateful for our haversacks;
Think of the evils we mellow.
To keep the batch you make it,
The poor people need songs.