The bells do not play, in Notre dame today.
Quasimodo hides up above, Quasimodo is sick with love.
The bells have lost their voice, for three days by his choice.
Quasimodo is sad, Quasimodo is going mad.
Frollo & Gringoire:
Quasimodo dies for love.
The bells that I make ring; they are my loves, they love me well.
I want to hear them sing, loud as they swing; my pretty bells.
In thunder or hail, or in wind or in rain.
Their song will never fail, singing through joy, singing through pain.
Bells that ring when we're born, Bells that ring when we die.
Bells that ring every day, every night, every hour.
Bells that ring when we pray, Bells that ring when we cry.
Bells that ring to wake us up when the sun lights the sky.
For the feast of Rameaux, for the Quasimodo.
For a bright Christmas day and for the day of all saints.
For annunciation, for the resurrection.
For St valentine day and for when Good Friday comes.
Celebrations they sing, all processions they ring.
The most beautiful day it is the feast of our lord.
Days of years, days of kings.
Easter day my bells ring.
And on Pentecost day they sing with bright tongues of flame.
Confirmation they sing, and communions they ring.
Bells that toll for our death; Dies Irae, dies illa.
For ascension they sing, for assumption they ring.
Bells that bring us hosanna and sing hallelujah.
The bells I hold most dear, of the beauties I have here.
They are my Mary's three, all best friends to me.
When my little Mary rings, when children die she sets them free.
And my big Mary rings, when sailors set forth on the sea.
But when my great Mary sings, when lovers exchange wedding rings.
Then something in me always cries; then something in me always dies.
To see their happiness, to see their tenderness.
When a woman will not give me a single caress.
My bells marry and blend, and take wings on the wind.
In the midst of the stars up in the vaults of the sky.
All these bells that I sound, Kyrie Elieson.
Hosanna Allelujah Dies irae dies illa.
Bells that mourn with the sad, bells that laugh with the glad.
All these bells that have never not once rung out for me.
The bells that I make ring; they are my loves, such joy they bring.
I want to hear them sing, if Esmeralda does still live.
To tell the world, that Quasimodo loves Esmeralda