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Monique Lyr Add: Mudcat singaround songs NOT in English (130* d) RE: Lyr Add: Mudcat singaround songs NOT in English 15 Mar 21


CAN VEI LA LAUZETA MOVER (Old Occitan)
Bernat de Ventadorn (ca. 1125 - ca. 1200) (really "ca."!)

Can vei la lauzeta mover
De joi sas alas contral rai,
Que s’oblid’ e.s laissa chazer
Per la doussor c’al cor li vai,
Ai! Tan grans enveya m’en ve
De cui qu’eu veya jauzion,
Meravilhas ai, car desse
Lo cor de dezirer no.m fon

Ai, las! tan cuidava saber
D’amor, e tan petit en sai,
Car eu d’amar no.m posc tener
Celeis don ja pro non aurai.
Tout m’a mo cor, e tout m’a me,
E se mezeis e tot lo mon;
E can se.m tolc, no.m laisset re
Mas dezirer e cor volon.

Anc non agui de me poder
Ni no fui meus de l’or’ en sai
Que.m laisset en sos olhs vezer
En un miralh que mout me plai.
Miralhs, pus me mirei en te,
M’an mort li sospir de preon,
C’aissi.m perdei com perdet se
Lo bels Narcisus en la fon.

De las domnas me dezesper;
Ja mais en lor no.m fiarai;
C’aissi com las solh chaptener,
Enaissi las deschaptenrai.
Pois vei c’una pro no m’en te
Vas leis que.m destrui e.m cofon,
Totas las dopt’ e las mescre,
Car be sai c’atretals se son.

D’aisso.s fa be femna parer
Ma domna, per qu’e.lh’ o retrai,
Car no vol so c’om deu voler,
E so c’om li deveda, fai.
Chazutz sui en mala merce,
Et ai be faih co.l fols en pon;
E no sai per que m’esdeve,
Mas car trop puyei contra mon.

Merces es perduda, per ver,
(Et eu non o saubi anc mai),
Car cilh qui plus en degr’aver,
No.n a ges, et on la querrai ?
A ! Can mal sembla, qui la ve,
Qued aquest chaitiu deziron
Que ja ses leis non aura be,
Laisse morrir, que no l’aon.

Pus ab midons no.m pot valer
Precs ni merces ni.l dreihz qu’eu ai,
Ni a leis no ven a plazer
Qu’eu l’am, ja mais no.lh o dirai.
Aissi.m part de leis e.m recre;
Mort m’a, e per mort li respon,
E vau m’en, pus ilh no.m rete,
Chaitius, en issilh, no sai on.

Tristans, ges no.n auretz de me,
Qu’eu m’en vau, chaitius, no sai on.
De chantar me gic e.m recre,
E de joi e d’amor m’escon.
WHEN I SEE THE LARK


When I see the lark beat his wings
for joy against the sun's ray,
until he forgets to fly and plummets down,
for the sheer delight which goes to his heart,
alas, great envy comes to me
of those whom I see filled with happiness,
and I marvel that my heart
does not instantly melt from desire.

Alas, I thought I knew so much about love,
and really I know so little,
for I cannot keep myself from loving her
from whom I shall have no favor.
She has stolen from me my heart, myself,
herself, and all the world.
When she took herself from me, she left me nothing
but desire and a longing heart.

Never have I been in control of myself
or even belonged to myself from the hour
that she let me gaze into her eyes-
that mirror that pleases me so greatly.
Mirror, since I saw myself reflected in you,
deep sighs have been killing me.
I have lost myself, just as
handsome Narcissus lost himself in the fountain.

I despair of women,
no more will I trust them,
and just as I used to defend them,
now I shall denounce them.
Since I see that none aids me
against her who destroys and confounds me,
I fear and distrust them all
for I know well they are all alike.

In this my lady certainly shows herself
to be a woman, and for it I reproach her,
for she wants not that which one ought to want,
and what is forbidden, she does.
I have fallen out of favor
and have behaved like the fool on the bridge;
and I don't know why it happened
except because I tried to climb too high.

Mercy is lost, in truth,
though I never received it,
for she who should possess it most
has none, so where shall I seek it?
Ah, one who sees her would scarcely guess
that she just leaves this passionate wretch
(who will have no good without her)
to die, and gives no aid.

Since with my lady neither prayers nor mercy
nor my rights avail me,
and since she is not pleased
that I love her, I will never speak of it to her again.
Thus I part from her, and leave;
she has killed me, and by death I respond,
since she does not retain me, I depart,
wretched, into exile, I don't know where.

Tristan, you will have nothing from me,
for I depart, wretched, I don't know where.
I quit and leave off singing
and withdraw from joy and love.
Translation borrowed from here, you'll also find a fine translation there.
You can listen to a nice recording here, to another there… There are more -(but I wouldn't say "everywhere").
Bernat de Ventadorn (or Bernart de Ventadorn or French 'Bernard de Ventadour') is our greatest and best known troubadour.
Wiki entry about the song
Note that troubadours' songs didn't reach us by any folk process, they've been "buried" for centuries and were "exhumed" by scholars only a few decades ago. They weren't folk songs. There were 3 styles of songs: "trobar lču" (light form) accessible to anyone, "trobar ric" (rich form) accessible to more literate people and "trobar clus" (closed form), complex and obscure, you needed to belong to the elite to access it.

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