Poem
Troubadour poetry
SONG OF A WRONGED TROUBADOUR
Never have I seen such wrongas what this nobleman does to me,
and everybody in these parts
knows exactly what I mean:
the nobleman, whenever he likes,
goes to bed with his lovely wife
and doesn’t pay me the slightest heed!
He doesn’t fear me in the least
but holds me in disdain instead,
for his wife, whom he adores,
will give him sons until she’s dead:
what nerve he has to give his name
to the three children that I made
without giving me a shred of credit!
I feel such pain I’m sure it must
be worse than any other kind:
he takes my lady off to bed,
says she’s his and spends the night
in peace without a second thought,
and when she bears a son or daughter,
he doesn’t recognize it’s mine!
© Translation: 1995, Richard Zenith
CANTIGA D’ESCARNHO
CANTIGA D’ESCARNHO
Nunca atan gran torto vicom’eu prendo dun infançon;
e quantos ena terra son,
todo-lo teen por assi:
o infançon, cada que quer,
vai-se deitar con sa molher
e nulha ren non dá por mi!
E já me nunca temerá,
ca sempre me tev’en desden;
des i ar quer sa molher ben
e já sempr’i filhos fará;
si quer três filhos que fiz i,
filha-os todos pera si:
o Demo lev’o que m’en dá!
En tan gran coita viv’oj’eu,
que non poderia maior:
vai-se deitar con mia senhor,
e diz do leito que é seu
e deita-s’a dormir en paz;
des i, se filh’ ou filha faz,
nono que outorgar por meu!
Poems
Poems of Troubadour poetry
Close
SONG OF A WRONGED TROUBADOUR
Never have I seen such wrongas what this nobleman does to me,
and everybody in these parts
knows exactly what I mean:
the nobleman, whenever he likes,
goes to bed with his lovely wife
and doesn’t pay me the slightest heed!
He doesn’t fear me in the least
but holds me in disdain instead,
for his wife, whom he adores,
will give him sons until she’s dead:
what nerve he has to give his name
to the three children that I made
without giving me a shred of credit!
I feel such pain I’m sure it must
be worse than any other kind:
he takes my lady off to bed,
says she’s his and spends the night
in peace without a second thought,
and when she bears a son or daughter,
he doesn’t recognize it’s mine!
© 1995, Richard Zenith
SONG OF A WRONGED TROUBADOUR
Never have I seen such wrongas what this nobleman does to me,
and everybody in these parts
knows exactly what I mean:
the nobleman, whenever he likes,
goes to bed with his lovely wife
and doesn’t pay me the slightest heed!
He doesn’t fear me in the least
but holds me in disdain instead,
for his wife, whom he adores,
will give him sons until she’s dead:
what nerve he has to give his name
to the three children that I made
without giving me a shred of credit!
I feel such pain I’m sure it must
be worse than any other kind:
he takes my lady off to bed,
says she’s his and spends the night
in peace without a second thought,
and when she bears a son or daughter,
he doesn’t recognize it’s mine!
© 1995, Richard Zenith
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