CHANSON SONG
Colin Muset tr. A.S.Kline
Sire cuens, j'ai vielé
Devant vous en vostre ostel,
Si ne m'avez rien doné
Ne mes gages aquité:
C'est vilanie!
Foi que doi sainte Marie,
Ainsi ne vous sivrai mie.
M'aumosniere est mal garnie
Et ma bourse mal farsie.

Sire cuens, car comandez
De moi vostre volenté.
Sire, il vous vient à gré,
Un beau don car me donez
Par courtoisie!
Talent ai, n'en doutez mie,
De raler à ma mesnie.
Quant j'i vois bourse esgarnie,
Ma feme ne me rit mie,

Ainz me dit. "Sire Engelé,
En quel terre avez esté,
Qui n'avez rien conquesté?.
........
Aval la ville.
Vez com vostre male plie!
Ele est bien de vent farsie.
Honis soit qui a envie
D'estre en vostre compagnie!"

Quant je vieng à mon ostel
Et ma feme a regardé
Derrier moi le sac enflé,
Et je qui sui bien paré
De robe grise,
Sachiez qu'ele a tost jus mise
La quenoille sans faintise;
Ele me rit par franchise,
Ses deus bras au col me plie.

Ma feme va destrousser
Ma male sans demorer;
Mon garçon va abuvrer
Mon cheval et conreer;
Ma pucele va tuer
Deus chapons pour deporter
A la janse alie;
Ma fille m'aporte un pigne
En sa main par cortoisie.
Lors sui de mon ostel sire
A moult grant joie sans ire
Plus que nuls ne porroit dire.
Sir Count, I've been fiddling
For you in your dwelling,
You've given me nothing
Not paid me what's owing:
It's villainy!
By what I owe Saint Mary,
You'll get no more of me.
My wallet here's empty,
My purse is still hungry.

Sir Count, now be giving
Your orders, I'm waiting.
Sir, now, if it's pleasing
To you, give me something
From courtesy!
I would love dearly
To visit my country.
But with my purse empty,
My wife won't love me.

She'll cry: 'Sir Clowning
Where were you living,
That you've won nothing?
You could have brought something
From the city!
Your bag looks so sorry!
It's filled with a flurry
Of wind. Curse anybody
Who wants your company!'

But if I reach my dwelling
And my wife starts gazing
At the fat sack there swelling
Behind my furred clothing,
Miniver surely,
Well-dressed, she sees me,
Her spindle falls willingly,
She smiles at me brightly,
Embraces me charmingly.

My wife goes off bustling
To unpack all my clothing,
My servant comes running
Starts watering and grooming
My horse: the maid's killing
Two capons for eating
With saucery:
My daughter, prettily
Brings me comb's courtesy.
Then I've the mastery
More joy, less anxiety,
Than any could rhyme for me.

Trans. Copyright © A.S.Kline 2005


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