The Heritage Press edition of Cyrano, translated by Louis Untermeyer, came with an insert containing seven different translations of the poem. My father was a Heritage Press subscriber, so perhaps that's where the poems came from. Most of these books were sold when my mother died, and I no longer seem to have that one (although there are still a few unopened boxes of books lying around).

However, alongside my paper, I found a set of stapled pages containing the original poem and six of the seven translations I wrote about in the paper. These are in the blue characters characteristic of copies made by a spirit duplicator, sometimes called a "Ditto" machine (mentioned in an earlier entry Copies, note 3). That implies that the poems were distributed to multiple people - perhaps they were given out to the entire class. Click here for a PDF showing the first page of the Ditto copy set I received, with some of my translation notes (to view that link, you must be have the Adobe Acrobat viewer installed.)

Oddly, that set is missing the translation by Brian Hooker, although it's discussed in my paper - perhaps I found it elsewhere. In order to be able to include all the translations I wrote about in my paper, I located the Hooker translation on the web (on that subject, see another earlier entry, Google).

Here are quick-jump links to the versions further down on this page:

        The original version, by Edmond Rostand, Paris, 1897
        Translation by Gladys Thomas & Mary F. Guillemard, London, 1898
        Translation by Howard Thayer Kingsbury, New York, 1898
        Translation by Humbert Wolfe, London, 1935
        Translation by Jacques LeClercq, New York, 1939
        Translation by Clifford Bissell & William Van Wyck, Los Angeles, 1947
        Translation by Louis Untermeyer, New York, 1953
        Translation by Brian Hooker

Here's the original version, by Edmond Rostand, Paris, 1897:

Je jette avec grâce mon feutre,
Je fais lentement l'abandon
Du grand manteau qui me calfeutre,
Et je tire mon espadon;
Élégant comme Céladon,
Agile comme Scaramouche,
Je vous préviens, cher Mirmidon,
Qu'à la fin de l'envoi, je touche!

Vous auriez bien dû rester neutre;
Où vais-je vous larder, dindon?...
Dans le flanc, sous votre maheutre?...
Au coeur, sous votre bleu cordon?...
Les coquilles tintent, ding-dong!
Ma pointe voltige: une mouche!
Décidément... c'est au bedon,
Qu'à la fin de l'envoi, je touche.

Il me manque une rime en eutre...
Vous rompez, plus blanc qu'amidon?
C'est pour me fournir le mot pleutre!
Tac! je pare la pointe dont
Vous espériez me faire don:
J'ouvre la ligne, je la bouche...
Tiens bien ta broche, Laridon!
A la fin de l'envoi, je touche.

Prince, demande à Dieu pardon!
Je quarte du pied, j'escarmouche,
Je coupe, je feinte... Hé! Là donc!
A la fin de l'envoi, je touche.

Translation by Gladys Thomas & Mary F. Guillemard, London, 1898:

I gaily doff my beaver low,
And, freeing hand and heel,
My heavy mantle off I throw,
And I draw my polished steel.
Graceful as Phoebus, round I wheel,
Alert as Scaramouche,
A word in your ear, Sir Spark, I steal,
At the envoi's end, I touch!

Better for you had you lain low.
Where skewer my cock? In the heel?
In the heart, your ribbon blue below?
In the hip, and make you kneel?
Ho for the music of clashing steel!
-- What now -- a hit? / Not much!
'Twill be in the paunch the stroke I steal,
When at the envoi, I touch.

Oh, for a rhyme, a rhyme in "o"!
You wriggle, starch white, my eel!
A rhyme! A rhyme! The white feather you show!
Tac! I parry the point of your steel.
The point you hoped to make me feel;
I open the line, now clutch
Your spit, Sir Scullion, -- show your zeal!
At the envoi's end, I touch!

Prince, pray heaven for your soul's weal,
I move a pace - lo, such! And such!
Cut over, -- feint! What ho! You reel?
At the envoi's end, I touch!

Translation by Howard Thayer Kingsbury, New York, 1898:

My hat I toss lightly away;
My shoulders I slowly let fall
The cloak that conceals my array,
My sword from my scabbard I call,
Like Celadon graceful and tall,
Like Scaramouche quick hand and brain --,
And I warn you my friend once for all,
I shall thrust when I end the refrain

You were rash thus to join in the fray;
Like a fowl I shall carve you up small,
Your ribs 'neath your doublet so gay,
Your breast where the blue ribbons fall,
Ding dong! ring your bright trappings all;
My point flits like a fly on the pane,
As I clearly announce to the hall
I shall thrust when I end the refrain

I need one more rhyme for "array" --
You give ground you turn white as the wall.--
And so lend me the word "runaway";
There! you have let your point fall.
As I parry your best lunge of all
I begin a new line the end's plain.
Your skewer hold tight lest it fall.
I shall thrust when I end the refrain

Prince, on the Lord you must call!
I gain ground, I advance once again,
I feint, I lunge ... There! that is all!
For I thrust as I end the refrain.

Translation by Humbert Wolfe, London, 1935:

I doff my beaver with an air,
and then unfasten at my ease
the military cloak I wear!
Then out, you best of snickersnees!
Lo! neat as Alcibiades
and Scaramouche for agile wit
I give you warning, scum and lees,
You'll find the envoy scores a hit.

You should have minded your affair!
Where shall I stuff you, goose, with grease?
Here in the flank, the elbow there,
or give your ribands heart-disease?
Hark! The Hilt-music on the breeze!!
Look! Here's a gnat; don't blink at it!
Is that your paunch? Dodge, as you please,
You'll find the envoy scores a hit.

Have you, perchance, a rhyme to spare?
Hold! When I see you, white as cheese,
I think the missing rhyme is "scare"!
Click! Thrust and bind? I parry these
thus, as you notice, with remise.
Now for a flêche--ah, clutch your spit,
poor dastard: in extremities,
You'll find the envoy scores a hit.

Prince, pray for pardon on your knees.
I thrust in carte! Ho there! Admit
a feint in Prime. St. Peter's keys!
You've found the envoy scores a hit.

Translation by Jacques LeClercq, New York, 1939:

With nonchalance, I doff my hat;
Gravely, I lay my mantle by;
Dame Sword whirrs out from her habitat
I salute ... I go into guard ... I vie
In grace with Ganymede; I am spry
As Mercury. Humbly I trust
You heard my warning that sparks would fly!
On the sad last line -- presto -- I thrust.

Your so-called heart beats pit-a-pat.
Would you could plead some alibi!
Shall I pink you under your silk cravat?
Shall I rip that ribbon I flicked awry?
Our blades ring, bell-like -- hi-diddle-hi!
Mark how my sword point hovers just
Over that line where belly meets thigh!
On the sad last line -- presto -- I thrust.

I lacked a rhyme to echo "at",
You cringe, you back, you are white as lye.
Coward! My rhyme? It is caveat!
Your scullion fingers wriggle to pry
Your spit between my ribs. Ha -- I
Have frivoled too long, and frittered, and fussed,
Life's short! I have other fish to fry!
On the sad last line - presto -- I thrust.

Prince! pray God He absolve him! Ay,
Three lines more, he is dead man's dust!
Death be kind, for the man must die!
On the sad last line -- presto -- I thrust.

Translation by Clifford Bissell & William Van Wyck, Los Angeles, 1947:

With grace I cast my felt aside,
And cloak that steals both air and sun,
A thing that I cannot abide!
I draw my sword, a worthy one.
And, calmly as young Celadon,
Agile as Scaramouche, I trust,
I give you warning, Myrmidon,
That at the envoy's end, I thrust.

You should be neutral in your pride.
Where shall I stick my Malison?
Beneath your sleeve? Or in your side?
Or through your heart? I'm not in fun!
Ring sword-guards! Feint! I mean no pun.
My blade hums like a fly! No rust
Has time to settle. Belly on,
When at the envoy's end, I thrust!

I lack a rhyme that ends in ide.
You break! You're white as starch! And none
But knows you for a coward. Wide!
I parry your point that might have won
Your hope of giving me a run!
Opening the line, I feint! You must
Hold your spit better, scullion;
For at the envoy's end, I thrust!

Prince, ask God for his benison!
I parry! Now 'tis dust to dust!
I cut! I feint! Hah, it is done,
For at the envoy's end, I thrust!

Translation by Louis Untermeyer, New York, 1953:

My hat is flung swiftly away;
My cloak is thrown off, if you please;
And my sword, always eager to play,
Flies out of the scabbard I seize.
My sword, I confess, is a tease,
With a nimble and mischievous brain;
And it knows, as the blade makes a breeze,
I shall strike as I end the refrain.

You should have kept quiet today.
I could carve you, my friend, by degrees.
But where? For a start, shall we say
In the side? Or the narrowest squeeze
'Twixt your ribs, while your arteries freeze,
And my point makes a sly meaning plain?
Guard that paunch! You're beginning to wheeze!
I shall strike as I end the refrain.

I need a word rhyming with a,
For, look, you turn paler than cheese
And wider than -- there's the word! -- Clay.
Your week thrusts I parry with ease;
Too late now to pause or appease.
Hold onto your spit, though in pain,
For if you'll permit the reprise --
I shall strike as I end the refrain.

Pray God, prince, to pardon all these
Poor efforts of yours, all in vain.
I thrust as you sink to your knees;
And I strike -- as I end the refrain!

Translation by Brian Hooker:

Lightly I toss my hat away,
Languidly over my arm let fall
The cloak that covers my bright array-
Then out swords, and to work withal!

A Launcelot, in his Lady’s hall ...
A Spartacus, at the Hippodrome! ...
I dally awhile with you, dear jackal,
Then, as I end the refrain, thrust home!

Where shall I skewer my peacock... Nay,
Better for you to have shunned the brawl!
Here, in the heart, thro’ your ribbons gay?
In the belly, under your silken shawls?
Hark, how the steel rings musical!
Mark how my point floats, lights as the foam,
Ready to drive you back to the wall,
Then, as I end the refrain, thrust home!

Ho, for a rime... You are white as whey
You break, you cower, you cringe, you ... crawl!
Tac! - and I parry your last essay;
So many the turn of a hand forestall
Life with its honey, death with its gall;
So many the turn of my fancy roam
Free, for a time, till the rimes recall,
Then as I end the refrain, thrust home!

Prince! Pray God, that is Lord of all,
Pardon your soul, for your time has come!
Beat - pass - fling you aslant, asprawl -
Then as I end the refrain, thrust home!