The same when she starts on her travels, lazily flows from her source. Slowly her length she unravels, twisting and turning her course. Deep in the country she'll tarry, not knowing which way to go, till the enchantment of Paris beckons her swiftly to flow. She goes flowing, flowing, flowing through the open countryside, for she's going, going, going to meet Paris like a bride. And she's cooing, cooing, cooing, cooing like the murmuring doves, for the sand has gone a-mooing, and it's Paris that she loves. She goes flowing, flowing, flowing, like the murmuring doves, and she's cooing, cooing, cooing to the sea where everything ends. And she's cooing, cooing, cooing, cooing like the murmuring doves, for the sand has gone a-mooing, and it's Paris that she loves.