Encounters Club: Variations on Traditions

Taivas on sininen ja valkoinen
ja tähtösiä täynnä.
Niin on nuori sydämeni
ajatuksia täynnä.

Enkä mä muille ilmoita
mun sydänsurujani.
Synkkä metsä, kirkas taivas,
ne tuntee mun huoliani.

The sky is blue and white
and full of stars.
So is my young heart
full of thoughts.

And I don’t tell others
my heartaches.
Dark forest, clear sky,
they know my worries.

Torna il sereno Zefiro,
e gl’augellini garruli,
e’ boschi dolci musici,
cantando insieme, temprano
al suon del rio che mormora
con corde note armoniche.

Io sol, involto il tristo core.
Anzi sepolto in trist’horrore
al suon del pianto intuon in tristi lai:
Primavera per me non sarà mai.

Le nube d’acque gravide
che scorgano i deluvi
hor tutte si ristagnano.
E i venti, che fremeano
orgogliosi con furia
taciti e chieti hor dormono.

Io sospirando senza riposo
e ancor versando tristo e doglioso
nembo di pioggia, intuono in tristi lai:
Primavera per me non sarà mai.
 

Ringiovenito ogn’arbore
di verde manto vestesi,
ridenti campi e pratore
di verde spoglia immantansi,
e in fin le grotte adornansi
di fior vermigli e candidi.

Io sol smarrita fuor d’ogni usanza,
secca e sfiorita di mia speranza
il più bel verde intuono in tristi lai:
Primavera per me non sarà mai.

Fair Zefiro comes back
and the chirping birds,
sweet musicians of the forest,
sing together, tuning
to the sound of the murmuring river
with harmonic notes and strings.

I, alone, wrap my sad heart.
In fact, buried in this sad terror,
crying I intonate in a sad lament:
it will never be spring for me.

The clouds pregnant with water
that glimpse the deluge,
now they are all stagnant.
And the winds, that trembled
proud and with fury,
now they sleep quiet and in silence.

I, sighing, without a rest
and still pouring a sad and aching
cloud of rain, I intonate in a sad lament:
it will never be spring for me.

Every tree has become young again
wearing a green mantle,
smiling fields and pastures
cover themselves with green clothes,
and even the caves are decorated
with red and candid flowers.

I, lost and out of any habit,
dry and flowerless, without any hope,
the most beautiful green I sing in a lament:
it will never be spring for me.

Zrejlo je žito, je žuta slama.
Žalostna dekla, kej nemaš lübiva? 
E, sedi ta, sedi lasvica ti, 
nasloni se, lüba, na mo pleča ti.

Zrejlo je žito, je žuta slama; 
zrejlo je zeldže, je žuto lišče. 
Zrejla je pšenica, žuta je slama, 
zrejla je pšenica, žuta je slama.

The grain is ripe, the straw is yellow. 
Sorrowful lass, don't you have a lover? 
Sit down here, you swallow bird,
lean, my love, on my shoulders. 

The grain is ripe, the straw is yellow;
the cabbage is ripe, the leaves turned yellow. 
The wheat is ripe, the straw is yellow,
The wheat is ripe, the straw is yellow.

Andaran siempre mis ojos
por la gloria en que se vieron
llorando, pues la perdieron.

Llorarán en contemplar
que el tiempo que la gozavan
quando de plazer lloravan
tanto lloran de pesar.

Sea tanto su llorar
por el bien en que se vieron
que çieguen, pues la perdieron.

My eyes will always go weeping
through the lost glory where they
saw themselves, since they lost it.

They will weep when they realize
that the time that they enjoyed it,
when they cried out of joy,
now they will weep as much out of sorrow.

May they weep so much
for the joy in which they found themselves
that they become blind, since they lost it.

Entrant dins es poble
sent un combregar.
“A ca na Cecília
jo l’he vist entrar.”

“Bona nit senyores,
vulguin dispensar,
que és sa meua núvia
que han de combregar.”

Entra dins sa cambra:
“Cecília, com va?”
“Malament, Riera,
malament me va.

No ploris, Riera,
que no has de plorar;
tenc una germana,
t’hi podràs casar.”

“No estic per germanes,
ni per cap germà,
que és amb tu, Cecília,
que me vull casar.”

“Fes venir un confesse,
que em vull confessar.”
I amb tres parauletes
Cecília expirà.

La treuen de ca seua
i al dur-la a enterrar,
se tirà allà en terra
i la va besar.

“Adéu, ma Cecília,
ja no em puc casar.”

While entering the village,
he heard someone receiving communion.
“Into Cecilia’s house
he saw him [the priest] entering.”

“Good evening, ladies,
I don’t want to disturb,
it is my fiancée
that is going to receive the communion.”

He goes inside of her room:
“Cecilia, how are you?”
“Bad, Riera,
I’m feeling bad.

Don’t cry, Riera,
you don’t need to cry;
I have a sister,
and you can marry her.”

“I don’t want any sister
nor any brother,
it is you, Cecilia,
that I want to marry.”

“Please call the confessor,
because I want to confess.”
And with three words,
Cecília passed away.

They take her out of her house,
and on the way to bury her,
he [Riera] jumped on her
and started kissing her.

“Goodbye, my Cecília,
I will never be able to marry.”

Even als de lieve Roosen,
‘s Mergens aen den distel bloosen,
daer den Hemel in den nacht
sijnen soeten daeuw op bracht,
bloosen ‘s mergens oock de tippen
van mijn Roosemondjes lippen,
die ick al den nacht met lust
onversadight heb gekust.

Kersjes kunnen soo niet bloeyen,
soo niet branden, soo niet gloeyen,
als sy tussen in de blaen
op haer beste rypen staen.
Maer en ist niet om te schreyen?
Waerom moet ick van u scheyen,
waerom moet ick aen een kant
in ons aldersoetste brand?

Just as the beloved roses
blush on the thistle in the morning,
because during the night Heaven
has laid on them its sweet dew,
in the morning blush also the tips
of my Roosemondje’s lips,
which I, the whole night with lust,
unsatiated have been kissing.

Cherries can neither bloom,
nor burn, nor glow,
when they stay between the leaves
on their best ripening.
But, isn’t it to weep?
Why must I part from you,
why must I step aside
in the moment of our sweetest fire?

Pour une Bergère infidelle
en vain je brusle nuict et jour.
Un autre enfin a receu d’elle
ce qu’elle doit a mon amour.
Comme elle je voudrois moy mesme
faire de nouvelles amours.
Cependant je sens que je l’aime
et que je l’aimeray tousjours.

For an unfaithful shepherdess
in vain I burn night and day.
Finally another one has received from her
that which she owes to my love.
Like her, I would like myself
to make/do new loves.
Nevertheless I feel that I love her
and that I will always love her.

Rossinyol que vas a França,
encomana’m a ma mare.
Rosinyol d’un bell bocatge,
rossinyol d’un vol.
Encomana’m a ma mare
i a mon pare no pas gaire.

A mon pare no pas gaire
perquè a un pastor me n’ha dada
que em fa guardar la ramada.

Nightingale that goes to France,
send news of me to my mum.
Nightingale of a beautiful landscape,
go there flying.
Send news of me to my mum,
but not to my father.

Not to my father,
because he gave me to a shepherd
that now has me guarding his sheep.

Ne ouri, ne sejaj,
rasi mi pšenica!
Čarni ouči dekla,
zakaj si gizdava?

Neisan ja gizdava,
Ar je sakša takša,
štera ma lübija,
prstanek na prsti.

Müva sva si rouže,
müva se lübiva.
Müva sva si rouže,
müva se lübiva.

Rouža san, si rouža,
dokeč nemam mouža.
Da enkrat mouža mon,
rouža mi poveine.

Cveitek san, si cveitek,
dokeč nemam deite,
da enkrat deite mon,
cveitek mi poveine.

Don't plough, don't sow,
grow, my wheat!
Dark-eyed girl,
why are you so gaudy?

I am not gaudy,
every girl is like that,
each who has a lover,
[and] a ring on her finger.

We are flowers to each other,
we love each other.
We are flowers to each other,
we love each other.

I am a flower, you are a flower,
until I have a husband.
Once I have a husband
the flower withers away.

I am a blossom, you are a blossom,
Until I have a child.
Once I have a child
the blossom withers away.

Chiome d’oro bel tesoro
tu mi leghi in mille modi
se t’annodi se ti snodi.

Candidette perle elette
se le rose che coprite
discoprite, mi ferite.

Vive stelle, che si belle
e si vaghe risplendete
se ridete m’ancidete.

Preziose, amorose,
coralline labbra amate
se parlate mi beate.

O bel nodo per cui godo,
o save uscir di vita,
o gradita mia ferita!

Golden hair, beautiful treasure,
you bind me in a thousand ways
whether you are coiled or loosened.

Candid chosen pearls,
if you uncover the roses
that you cover, you wound me.

Lively stars, you are so beautiful
and so longing you shine,
that you kill me if you smile.

Precious, amorous,
beloved coral lips
if you speak you bless me.

Oh beautiful knot that I enjoy,
O sweet way of leaving this life,
O appreciated wound of mine!

Duysend kusjes duysend malen,
en die soo veel duysend mael.
Alser ‘s winters fackels branden
aen den hogen HemelSael,
Alser waterdruppels dryven
op den Spaenschen golven grondt,
soud ick d’een op d’ander drucken,
overschoone Roosemond.

Aen u kaeckjes die daer gloeyen
van het aldereelste bloed,
aen u lipjes die dar vloeyen
van het aldersoetste soet,
aen u oogjes, moordenaersters 
van mijn overwonnen hert,
die ghetuygen sonder spreecken
van u vriendelijcke smert.

Maer wanneer ick aen u ooghjes,
aen de vensters van u lijf,
aen u kaeckjes, aen u lipjes,
als een mossel hangen blijf,
dan en sie ick noch u haeckjes,
noch u ooghjes, noch u mond, 
en mijn ooghe wert ontstolen,
daer het sijn vermaeck in vond.

Dan en sie ick niet u lachen,
dat mijn smerten, dat mijn pijn,
dat mijn droefheyt doet verdwynen
als een somersonneschijn.
Daervoor mijne sorgen loopen
als een dichte nevelnacht,
als Apollo weer sijn wagen
aen den Hemel heeft gebracht.

Laes! Hoe qualijck komen d’oogen
met de lippen over een.
Wat jaloerscher ongemeynschap,
wat een strijt is tusschen tween!
Mijn gesicht en mach’t niet lyen,
en wil ‘t kussen my verbien,
want als ick begin te kussen
kan ick Roosemond niet sien.

A thousand kisses a thousand times,
and this much a thousand times more.
If in winter there are torches burning
in the high Hall of Heaven,
if waterdrops float
on the floor of the gulf of Spain,
I would press one against the other,
most beautiful Roosemond.

To your cheeks that glow
of the noblest blood,
to your lips that flow
of the sweetest sweet,
to your eyes, killers
of my defeated heart,
that are witnesses without speaking
of your friendly pain.

But when I from your eyes,
the windows of your body,
from your cheeks, from your lips
like a mussel keep hanging,
then I still see your cheeks,
your eyes, your mouth,
and my eyes are stolen,
in this I find pleasure.

Then I don’t see your laugh,
which my sorrows, my pain
and my sadness makes disappear
like a ray of summer sun.
Therefore my worries wander
like a thick nighty fog,
as if Apollo his carriage
out of Heaven again has brought.

Alas! How ill it is to have the eyes
covered by the lips.
How jealous this lack of unity,
what a fight between them two!
My face cannot suffer it
and wants to forbid myself the kissing,
because if I begin to kiss
I cannot see Roosemond.

Minun kultani kaunis on,
vaikk’ on kaitaluinen,
Hei luulia illalla,
'vaikk’ on kaitaluinen.

Silmät sill’ on siniset,
vaikk’ on kieronlaiset,
Hei luulia illalla,
vaikk’ on kieronlaiset.

Suu on sillä supukka,
vaikk’ on toista syltä,
Hei luulia illalla,
vaikk’ on toista syltä.

Kun minä vien sen markkinoille,
niin hevosetkin nauraa,
hei luulia hah hah haa,
hevosetkin nauraa. 

My darling is beautiful,
although she is thin.

Her eyes are blue,
although they are crooked.

She has a narrow mouth,
although it is two fathoms wide.

When I take her to the market,
even the horses are laughing.