QUI NO SAP ESSER CHANTAIRE ... LET HIM WHO DOESN'T SING ALONG ...
Jaufré Rudel (Apocryphal) trans. James H. Donalson (from Provençal)
Qui no sap esser chantaire
Laire,
Quant aug los vergiers sonar
Clar
E quan son per tot mesclat
Prat
E·l rozatz del matin s'espan
Blan
Sobre l'erba josta'l sauza.

Non aus semblan ni vejaire
Faire
Qu'eu l'am, ni l'aus desamar,
Ar
Q'en amor son drut intrat
Fat
E'il fals amador ab engan
Van
Cui Amors engann'e bauza.

Non es reis ni emperaire
Gaire
Que l'ause·l mantel tochar
Var,
Ni far q'agues acatat
Grat,
Ric me fai la noig en somnjan
Can
M'es vis q'e mo's bratz l'enclauza.

Lai m'irai el seu repaire,
Laire,
Em peril qom de passar
Mar;
Si de mi no'l pren pitat,
Bat
Fer freg. Las! tan la vau pregan,
Qan
Qe ja de leis no m'en jauza!

Si no·m vol amar m'amia,
Dia,
Pos eu l'am, s'il m'amara
Ja,
Q'eu sui al seu mandamen
Gen,
E'il serai. si'm vol retener;
Vei
Li dirai, q'atressi l'auza!
Let him who doesn't sing along,
bark it,
when I hear gardens singing out,
clear,
when everywhere the meadows are
pied,
the morning dew spreads out and seems
sweet,
upon the grass down to the willow.

I don't dare let my love appear,
seeming,
and I don't dare stop loving her
now
while those involved in loving are
fools
and false deceivers claim they're in
love
but Love's deceived by all these tricksters.

There is no king or emperor,
scarcely,
who'd dare to touch her mantle of
fur,
nor who'd succeed in getting her
grace;
I'm joyful as I sleep at night
when
I seem to hold her in embraces.

I'll go into her dwelling there,
stealthy,
in peril as upon the high
seas;
and if she will not pity me,
I
hit on cold iron. Ah, how I pray,
though
from her I'm having no enjoyment!

And if my friend won't love me then,
say then,
since I love her, she'll love me too,
soon,
for I am at her kind command
now,
and shall be, if she keeps me on.
Truth
to tell, if she will only listen!

Trans. Copyright © James H. Donalson 2005


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