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From Dawn to Dawn

Troubadour Poetry

(A selection of sixty Provencal poems, translated from the Occitan)

'Per solatz revelhar,

Que s'es trop enformitz,

E per pretz, qu'es faiditz

Acolhir e tornar,

Me cudei trebalhar'

'To wake delight once more,

That's been too long asleep,

And worth that's exiled deep

To gather and restore:

These thoughts I've laboured for'

Guiraut de Bornelh
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Translated by A. S. Kline (C) Copyright 2009 All Rights Reserved

This work may be freely reproduced, stored, and transmitted, electronically or otherwise, for any non-commercial purpose.

Contents

Translator's Introduction
Anonymous (10th Century)
Phebi claro nondum orto iubare
With pale Phoebus, in the clear east, not yet bright,
Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)
Ab la dolchor del temps novel
Out of the sweetness of the spring,
Farai un vers de dreyt nien
I've made a song devoid of sense:
Pus vezem de novelh florir
Since we see, fresh flowers blowing
Mout jauzens me prenc en amar
Great the joy that I take in love,
Farai chansoneta nueva
I'll make a little song that's new,
Pos de chantar m'es pres talentz
Since my mood urges me to sing
Jaufre Rudel (d. c. 1148)
Lanquan li jorn son lonc e may
When the days are long, in May,
Quan lo rius de la fontana
When the sweet fountain's stream
No sap chanter qui so no di
No one can sing where no melody is,
Marcabru (fl. 1130-1150)
A la fontana del vergier
In an orchard down by the stream,
Cercamon (fl. c. 1137-1152)
Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis
When the sweet air turns bitter,
Rigaut de Berbezilh (fl. 1140-1163)
Si tuit li dol e? lh plor e? lh marrimen
If all the grief and woe and bitterness
Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1145-1175)
Can vei la lauzeta mover
When I see the lark display
Tant ai mo cor ple de joya
So full is my heart of joy now,
Can par la flors josta. l vert folh
When flowers are in the leaves green
Can la frej' aura venta
When fresh breezes gather,
Can la verz folha s'espan
When the greenery unfolds
Pel doutz chan que? l rossinhols fai
To the sweet song of the nightingale,
La rossinhols s'esbaudeya
The nightingale sings happily
Can l'erba fresch'e? lh folha par
When fresh leaves and shoots appear,
Lo tems vai e ven e vire
Time comes, and goes, and runs away,
La douza votz ai auzida
The sweetest voice I have heard,
Chantars no pot gaire valer
Singing proves merely valueless
Peire d'Auvergne (fl. 1157-1170)
Ab fina joia comenssa
With noble joy commences
Raimbaut d'Orange (c1144-d. 1173)
Ar resplan la flors enversa
Now the flowers gleam, in reverse,
Non chant per auzel ni per flor
I do not sing for bird or flower,
Beatritz de Dia (c1140-fl. c. 1175)
Estat ai en greu cossirier
I've been in great distress of mind,
A chantar m'er de so qu'ieu no volria
Now I must sing of what I would not do,
Arnaut de Mareuil (late 12th century)
Bel m'es quan lo vens m'alena
It's sweet when the breeze blows softly,
Arnaut Daniel (fl. 1180-1210)
Sols sui qui sai lo sobrafan que? m sortz
I am the one that knows the pain that flows
Quan chai la fueilha
When the pale leaves descend
Douz braitz e critz
Sweet tweet and cry
Er vei vermeilhs, vertz, blaus, blancs, gruocs
I see scarlet; green, blue, white, yellow
Anc ieu non l'aic, mas elha m'a
I have him not, yet he has me
Lo ferm voler qu'el cor m'intra
The firm desire that in my heart enters
En cest sonnet coind'e leri
To this light tune, graceful and slender,
Peire Vidal (1175 - 1205)
Ab l'alen tir vas me l'aire
I breathe deeply, draw in the air:
Ges quar estius
Though spring's glorious
Plus que. l paubres quan jai el ric ostal
No more than a beggar dare complain,
Estat ai gran sazo
I've felt, for so long, so
Raimbaut de Vaqueiras (c1155- fl. 1180-d. c1207)
Altas ondas que venez suz la mar
Deep waves that roll, travelling the sea,
Gaita be, gaiteta del chastel
Keep a watch, watchman there, on the wall,
Kalenda maia
Calends of May
Guillem de Cabestan (1162-1212)
Aissi cum selh que baissa? l fuelh
Like to him who bends the leaves
Lo jorn qu'ie? us vi, dompna, primeiramen,
The day I saw you, lady that first time,
Anc mais no m? fo semblan
Never would I have conceived
Bertran de Born (c1140-d. before1215)
Dompna, puois de mi no? us cal
Lady, since you care not at all
Be? m platz lo gais temps de pascor
The joyful springtime pleases me
Ai! Lemozis, francha terra cortesa,
Ah, Limousin! Country free and courtly,
Giraut de Bornelh (c. 1138 - 1215)
Reis glorios, verais lums e clartatz,
Glorious king, true light and clarity,
Peire Raimon de Toulouse (fl. 1180-1220)
De fin'amor son tot mei pensamen
On true love are all my thoughts bent
Anonymous Aubes (12th-13th century)
Quan lo rossinhols escria
While the nightingale sings away
En un vergier sotz fuella d'albespi
In a deep bower under a hawthorn-tree
Anonymous Balade (13th century or later)
Mort m'an li semblan que madona? m fai
The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,
Gaucelm Faidit (c. 1170 - c. 1202)
Fortz chausa es que tot lo maior dan
A harsh thing it is that brings such harm,
Peire Cardenal (c. 1180-c. 1278)
Vera vergena Maria
Truest Virgin, our Maria
Sordello (fl. 1220-1265)
Planher vuelh En Blacatz en aquest leugier so
I wish to mourn Blacatz, now, in skilful song,
Ai las e que-m fan mei uehls
Alas, what use are my eyes
Guiraut Riquier (c. 1230 - 1292)
Ab plazen
From pleasant
Translator's Introduction

Merry Company

'The Annunciation'
The Book of Hours - c. 1407 The British Library

This personal selection of Occitan poetry is of verse that I feel has true poetic merit, and nothing is included solely for its historic interest. I considered a simple prose or free verse translation of these poems, but to show the Troubadours without their rhyme schemes, their form, seemed to me too great an admission of failure. Form is half their art and crucially their poems were set to music, a large amount of which survives.

Either approach, rhymed or un-rhymed, is of course valid. As always the end result is what counts. I have gone for rhyme and aimed for accuracy of meaning. These translations attempt to stay close to the original text, in rhythm, rhyme-scheme and content. I have given the first lines of the poems, the incipits, as Occitan headings (one only is in Latin), so that a quick search on the Web for the line, remembering to enclose it in double quotes, will usually turn up the original text for those who need to see it. For the uninitiated I would also suggest reading a little about the Troubadours on Wikipedia, which leads the reader on to a vast amount of interesting material online, especially the music.

Many dates and facts are conjecture, and so the order of the poets is at times somewhat arbitrary where dates of birth and death are uncertain. I have not translated the vidas, or biographical lives of the poets, which are highly unreliable, though charming as legend, but have referred to them where relevant.

Anonymous (10th Century)

The manuscript of this bilingual text, which has been termed the first alba or dawn song, made of Latin stanzas with an apparently Provencal refrain, is thought to have come from the monastery of Fleury-sur-Loire. Though not strictly a troubadour text, it is a first example of a form, the alba, adopted later. The refrain is: L'alb' apar, tumet mar at ra'sol; po y pas, a! bigil, mira clar tenebras!

Phebi claro nondum orto iubare

With pale Phoebus, in the clear east, not yet bright,

Aurora sheds, on earth, ethereal light:

While the watchman, to the idle, cries: 'Arise! '

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Ah, alas! It is he! See there, the shadows pass!

Behold, the heedless, torpid, yearn to try

And block the insidious entry, there they lie,

Whom the herald summons urging them to rise.

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Ah, alas! It is he! See there, the shadows pass!

From Arcturus, the North Wind soon separates.

The star about the Pole conceals its bright rays.

Towards the east the Plough its brief journey makes.

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Now, alas! It is he!

Note: The third verse suggests a summer sky in northern latitudes, say late July, when Arcturus sets in the north-west at dawn.

Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)

William or Guillem IX, called The Troubador, was Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony and Count of Poitou, as William VII, between 1086, when he was aged only fifteen, and his death. Refusing to take part in the first crusade of 1098, he was one of the leaders of the minor Crusade of 1101 which was a military failure. He was the 'first' troubadour, that is, the first recorded vernacular lyric poet, in the Occitan language. Threatened with excommunication several times for his dissolute life and challenges to Church authority, he was later reconciled. He married his 'step-daughter' Anor, to his son, later Guilhem X, and in turn their daughter Alianor (Eleanor), Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitou, became Queen of France, and by her second marriage to Henry, Duke of Normandy, later Henry II, became Queen of England also. She was the mother of the Young King Henry, Richard Coeur de Lion, Geoffrey of Brittany and John Lackland.

Ab la dolchor del temps novel

Out of the sweetness of the spring,

The branches leaf, the small birds sing,

Each one chanting in its own speech,

Forming the verse of its new song,

Then is it good a man should reach

For that for which he most does long.

From finest sweetest place I see

No messenger, no word for me,

So my heart can't laugh or rest,

And I don't dare try my hand,

Until I know, and can attest,

That all things are as I demand.

This love of ours it seems to be

Like a twig on a hawthorn tree

That on the tree trembles there

All night, in rain and frost it grieves,

Till morning, when the rays appear

Among the branches and the leaves.

So the memory of that dawn to me

When we ended our hostility,

And a most precious gift she gave,

Her loving friendship and her ring:

Let me live long enough, I pray,

Beneath her cloak my hand to bring.

I've no fear that tongues too free

Might part me from Sweet Company,

I know with words how they can stray

In gossip, yet that's a fact of life:

No matter if others boast of love,

We have the loaf, we have the knife!

Note: Pound quotes the phrase 'Ab la dolchor' at the start of Canto XCI.

Farai un vers de dreyt nien

I've made a song devoid of sense:

It's not of me or other men

Of love or being young again,

Or other course,

Rather in sleep I found it when

Astride my horse.

I know not what hour I was born:

I'm not happy nor yet forlorn,

I'm no stranger yet not well-worn,

Powerless I,

Who was by fairies left one morn,

On some hill high.

I can't tell whether I'm awake

Or I'm asleep, unless men say.

It almost makes my poor heart break

With every sigh:

Not worth a mouse though, my heart-ache,

Saint Martial, fie!

I'm ill, I'm afraid of dying;

But of what I hear know nothing;

I'd call a doctor for his learning,

But which, say I?

He's a good doctor if I'm improving,

Not, if I die.

I've a lover, but who is she?

She, by my faith, I never could see;

Nothing she did to hurt or please,

So what, say I?

In my house, no French or Norman

Shall ever lie.

I never saw her, yet love her true,

She never was faithful or untrue;

I do well when she's not in view,

Not worth a cry,

I know a nobler, fairer too

To any eye.

I've made the verse, don't know for who;

I'll send it on to someone new,

Who'll send it on towards Anjou,

Or somewhere nigh,

So its counter-key from his casket he'll

Send, by and by.

Note: The last two lines remain perplexing, but suggest that Guillaume was inviting a similarly ironic song, a counter or duplicate, in reply.

Pus vezem de novelh florir

Since we see, fresh flowers blowing

Field and meadow greenly glowing,

Stream and fountain crystal flowing

Fair wind and breeze,

It's right each man should live bestowing

Joy as he please.

Of love I'll speak nothing but good.

Why've I not had all that I could?

Likely I've had all that I should;

For readily,

It grants joy to one who's understood

Love's boundary.

It's been the same all of my days,

I've had no joy of love, always,

Too late now to change my ways;

For knowingly

I've done much of which my heart says:

'That's nullity. '

For this reason I win less pleasure:

What I can't have I always treasure;

And yet the saying proves true forever:

For certainly:

'To good heart comes good luck in measure' -

Suffer joyfully!

You will never prove faithful to

Love, unless you're submissive too,

And to neighbours and strangers you

Act quite humbly,

And to all who live within its view

Obediently.

Obedience we must ever show,

To others, if we'd love, and so

It's fitting that from us should flow

True courtesy;

We must not speak at court as though

Born vilely.

This verse I'll say to you is worth

More if you'll comprehend it first,

And praise the words, I gave them birth

Consistently,

I too will praise, as finest on earth,

Its melody.

My Stephen, though here I keep my berth,

There presently,

I trust you'll read this, and of its worth

Give guarantee.

Mout jauzens me prenc en amar

Great the joy that I take in love,

A joy where I can take my ease,

And then in joy turn as I please,

Once more with the best I move,

For I am honoured, she's above

The best that man can hear or see.

I, as you know, small credit take,

Nor for myself claim any power,

Yet if ever a joy should flower,

This one should, and overtake

All others, Earth from shadows wake

Like the sun in a gloomy hour.

No man can fashion such a thing,

By no wish of his, no desire,

Nor by thought or dream aspire

To such joy, as she will bring,

All year I could her praises sing

And not tell all before I tire.

All joys are humbled, all must dance

To her law, and all lords obey

My lady, with her lovely way

Of greeting, her sweet pleasant glance,

A hundred years of life I'd grant

To him who has her love in play.

Her joy can make the sick man well,

And through her anger too he dies,

And fools she fashions of the wise,

And handsome men age at her spell,

And status, wealth she can dispel

And raise the beggar to the skies.

Since man can find no better here,

That lips can tell of, eyes can see,

I wish to keep her close by me.

To render my heart fresh and clear,

Renew the flesh too, so the sere

Winds of age blow invisibly.

If she'll grant her love in measure,

My gratitude I'll then declare,

And conceal it and flatter there,

Speak and act all for her pleasure;

Carefully I'll prize my treasure,

And sing her praises everywhere.

I daren't send this by another,

I have such fear of her disdain,

Nor go myself, and go in vain,

Nor forcefully make love to her;

Yet she must know I am better

Since she heals my wound again.

Farai chansoneta nueva

I'll make a little song that's new,

Before wind, frost, and rain come too;

My lady tests me, and would prove

How, and in just what way, I am

In love, yet despite all she may do

I'd rather be stuck here in this jam.

I'd rather deliver myself and render

Whatever will write me in her charter,

No, don't think I'm under the weather,

If in love with my fine lady I am,

Since it seems I can't live without her,

So great the hunger of sire for dam.

For she is whiter than ivory,

So there can be no other for me.

If there's no help for this, and swiftly,

And my fine lady love me, goddamn,

I'll die, by the head of Saint Gregory,

If she'll not kiss me, wherever I am!

What good will it be to you, sweet lady,

If your love keeps you distant from me?

Are you hankering after a nunnery?

Know this then: so in love I am,

I'm fearful lest pure sadness claim me,

If you don't right my wrongs, madam.

What good if I seek a monastery,

And you don't keep tight hold of me?

All the joy of the world we'd see,

Lady if we were ewe and ram.

To my friend Daurostre, I make this plea,

That he sing (not bray) this at my command:

For her I shiver and tremble,

Since with her I so in love am;

Never did any her resemble,

In beauty, since Eve knew Adam.

Pos de chantar m'es pres talentz

Since my mood urges me to sing

I'll make a verse, of my grieving:

Yet not serve Love in anything,

In Poitou or in Limousin.

Now to exile I have come:

In great fear and danger's room,

And fierce war I'll leave my son,

By his neighbours ill is planned.

This parting now makes me rue

The Seigneury of Poitou!

Fulk of Angers keeps it true,

With his kin, all the land.

If Fulk fails these lands to succour,

And the king, from whom's my honour,

Then that crew will bring dishonour

Gascon felons and Angevin.

If neither good nor worth he knows,

When I'm gone from you, suppose

They'll quickly cause his overthrow

Knowing him young: but half a man.

Mercy I ask of each companion,

If I have wronged him may he pardon;

And I ask it of Jesus in heaven

Both in Latin and Romance.

I was of joy and chivalry,

But now of both I must be free;

And to Him I now take me,

Where sinner finds his goal at hand.

Happiness, gaiety have I seen

But our Lord bans what has been;

Will not suffer such ill scenes,

When so near my end I stand.

All have I left for love of Him,

Chivalry and pride grow dim;

And if God please, he'll gather me in,

And I pray keep me at his right hand.

I ask that my friends at my death

Come but to honour my last breath,

For I have had both joy and mirth

Near and far, and in palace grand.

So, I abandon joy and mirth,

Vair, sable, ermine: I'll naked stand.

Note: Fulk is Foulques V of Anjou (its capital Angers) also known as Foulques the Younger, Count of Anjou 1109-1129, and King of Jerusalem from 1131 to his death in 1143.

Jaufre Rudel (d. c. 1148)

The Castellan of Blaye, he flourished early to mid 12th century and probably died during the Second Crusade, 1147-9. His 13th century vida or biography claims he fell in love with the Countess of Tripoli without ever having seen her and after taking ship for Tripoli fell ill during the voyage, ultimately dying in the arms of his 'love afar'.

Lanquan li jorn son lonc e may

When the days are long, in May,

Sweet the songs of birds afar,

And when I choose from there to stray,

I bring to mind a love that's far.

I walk face lowered, and I glower,

And neither song nor hawthorn flower,

Can please me more than winter's ice.

I hold the Lord for truth always

By whom was formed this love afar,

But for each good that comes my way

Two ills I find, since she's so far.

Would I were a pilgrim at this hour,

So staff and cloak from her tower,

She'd gaze on with her lovely eyes!

What joy it will be to seek that day,

For love of God, that inn afar,

And, if she wishes, rest, I say,

Near her, though I come from afar,

For words fall in a pleasant shower

When distant lover has the power,

With gentle heart, joy to realise.

Sad, in pain, would I go away,

Should I not see that love afar.

For I don't know when I may

See her, the distance is so far.

So many the roads and ways lower,

That indeed I can say no more,

But let all things be as she likes.

The delights of love I never may

Enjoy, if not joy of my love afar,

No finer, nobler comes my way,

From any quarter: near or far.

So rich and high is her dower,

That there in the Saracen's tower

For her sake I would be their prize.

God that made all that goes or stays

And formed this love from afar

Grant me the power to hope one day

I'll see this love of mine afar,

Truly, and in a pleasant hour,

So that her chamber and her bower,

Might seem a palace to my eyes.

Who calls me covetous, truth to say,

Is right, I long for a love afar,

For no other joy pleases me today

Like the joy in my love from afar.

Yet what I wish is not in my power,

It is my godfather's curse, so sour,

That I love, yet love should be denied.

For what I wish is not in my power,

Cursed my godfather's word so sour,

Who has ruled my love should be denied.

Quan lo rius de la fontana

When the sweet fountain's stream

Runs clear, as it used to do,

And there the wild-roses blow,

And the nightingale, on the bough,

Turns and polishes, and makes gleam

His sweet song, and refines its flow,

It's time I polished mine, it would seem.

Oh my love, from a land afar,

My whole heart aches for you;

No cure can I find, for this no

Help but your call, I vow,

With love's pangs sweetest by far,

In a curtained room or meadow,

Where I and the loved companion are.

I shall lack that forever though,

So no wonder at my hunger now;

For never did Christian lady seem

Fairer - nor would God wish her to -

Nor Jewess nor Saracen below.

With manna he's fed as if in dream,

Who of her love should win a gleam!

No end to desire will my heart know

For her, whom I love most, I vow;

I fear lest my will should cheat me,

If lust were to steal her from me too.

For sharper than thorns this pain and woe

The sadness that joy heals swiftly,

For which I want no man's pity.

Without parchment brief, I bestow

On Filhol the verses I sing now,

In the plain Romance tongue, that he

May take them to Uc le Brun, anew.

They rejoice in it, I'm pleased to know,

In Poitou, and in Berry,

In Guyenne, and Brittany.

Note: Uc le Brun is Uc VII of Lusignan, who had taken the cross for the Second Crusade in 1147. Filhol is the name of the joglar (jongleur, or minstrel)

No sap chanter qui so no di

No one can sing where no melody is,

Or fashion verse with words unclear,

Or know how the rhymes should appear,

If his logic inwardly goes amiss;

But my own song begins like this:

My song gets better, the more you hear.

Let no man wonder about me,

If I love one I've never known,

My heart joys in one love alone,

That of one who'll never know me;

No greater joy do I welcome gladly,

Yet I know not what good it may be.

I am struck by a joy that kills me,

And pangs of love that so ravish

All my flesh, body will perish;

Never before did I so fiercely

Suffer like this, and so languish,

Which is scarce fitting or seemly.

How often do I close my eyes

And know my spirit is fled afar;

Never such sadness that my heart

Is far from where my lover lies;

Yet when the clouds of morning part,

How swiftly all my pleasure flies.

I know I've never had joy of her,

Never will she have joy of me,

Nor promise herself, nor will she

Ever now take me as her lover;

No truth or lie does she utter,

To me: and so it may ever be.

The verse is good, I have not failed,

All that is in it is well placed;

He whose lips it may chance to grace,

Take care it's not hacked or curtailed

When Bertran in Quercy's assailed,

Or, at Toulouse, the Count you face.

The verse is good, and they'll be hailed

For something they'll do in that place.

Marcabru (fl. 1130-1150)

Marcabru was a powerful influence on later poets who adopted the trobar clus style. He experimented, as here, with the pastorela. Among his patrons were William X of Aquitaine and, probably, Alfonso VII of Leon. Marcabru may have travelled to Spain in the entourage of Alfonso Jordan, Count of Toulouse, in the 1130s. In the 1140s he was a propagandist for the Reconquista, of Spain from the Moors.

A la fontana del vergier

In an orchard down by the stream,

Where at the edge the grass is green,

In the shade of an apple-tree,

By a plot of flowers all white,

Where spring sang its melody,

I met alone without company

One who wishes not my solace.

She was a young girl, beautiful,

Child of the lord of that castle;

But when I thought the songbirds' call

Might, from its tree, make her heart light,

And sweet the fresh season all,

And she might hear my prayers fall,

A different look did cross her face.

Her tears flowed, the fount beside,

And from her heart her prayer sighed.

'Jesus, King of the World,' she cried,

'Through you my grief is at its height,

Insult to you confounds me, I

Lose the best of this world wide:

He goes to serve and win your grace.

With you goes my handsome friend,

The gentle, noble, and brave I send;

Into great sorrow I must descend,

Endless longing, and tears so bright.

Ai! King Louis to ill did tend

Who gave the order and command,

That brought such grief to my heart's space! '

When I heard her so, complaining,

I went to her, by fountain's flowing:

'Lady,' I said 'with too much crying

Your face will lose its colour quite;

And you've no reason yet for sighing,

For he who makes the birds to sing,

Will grant you joy enough apace. '

'My lord,' she said, 'I do believe

That God will have mercy on me

In another world eternally,

And many other sinners delight;

But here he takes the thing from me

That is my joy; small joy I see

Now that he's gone so far away. '

Cercamon (fl. c. 1137-1152)

Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn. He was the inventor of the planh, the Provencal dirge, and some circumstantial evidence points to his having died on crusade as a follower of Louis VII of France.

Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis

When the sweet air turns bitter,

And leaves fall from the branch,

And birds their singing alter

Still I, of him, sigh and chant,

Amor, who keeps me closely bound,

He that I never had in my power.

Alas! I gained nothing from Amor

But only had pain and torment,

For nothing is as hard to conquer

As that on which my desire is bent!

No greater longing have I found,

Than for that which I'll lack ever.

In a jewel I rejoice, in her

So fine, no other's felt my intent!

When I'm with her I dumbly stutter,

Cannot utter my words well meant,

And when we part I seem drowned,

Loss of all sense and reason suffer.

All the ladies a man saw ever

Compared to her aren't worth a franc!

When on earth the shadows gather,

Where she rests, all is brilliant.

Pray God I'll soon with her be wound,

Or watch her as she mounts the stair.

I startle and I shake and shiver

Awake, asleep, on Love intent,

So afraid that I might wrong her,

I don't dare ask for what I meant,

But two or three years' service downed,

Then she'll know the truth I offer.
1407 The British Library

This personal selection of Occitan poetry is of verse that I feel has true poetic merit, and nothing is included solely for its historic interest. I considered a simple prose or free verse translation of these poems, but to show the Troubadours without their rhyme schemes, their form, seemed to me too great an admission of failure. Form is half their art and crucially their poems were set to music, a large amount of which survives.

Either approach, rhymed or un-rhymed, is of course valid. As always the end result is what counts. I have gone for rhyme and aimed for accuracy of meaning. These translations attempt to stay close to the original text, in rhythm, rhyme-scheme and content. I have given the first lines of the poems, the incipits, as Occitan headings (one only is in Latin), so that a quick search on the Web for the line, remembering to enclose it in double quotes, will usually turn up the original text for those who need to see it. For the uninitiated I would also suggest reading a little about the Troubadours on Wikipedia, which leads the reader on to a vast amount of interesting material online, especially the music.

Many dates and facts are conjecture, and so the order of the poets is at times somewhat arbitrary where dates of birth and death are uncertain. I have not translated the vidas, or biographical lives of the poets, which are highly unreliable, though charming as legend, but have referred to them where relevant.

Anonymous (10th Century)

The manuscript of this bilingual text, which has been termed the first alba or dawn song, made of Latin stanzas with an apparently Provencal refrain, is thought to have come from the monastery of Fleury-sur-Loire. Though not strictly a troubadour text, it is a first example of a form, the alba, adopted later. The refrain is: L'alb' apar, tumet mar at ra'sol; po y pas, a! bigil, mira clar tenebras!

Phebi claro nondum orto iubare

With pale Phoebus, in the clear east, not yet bright,

Aurora sheds, on earth, ethereal light:

While the watchman, to the idle, cries: 'Arise! '

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Ah, alas! It is he! See there, the shadows pass!

Behold, the heedless, torpid, yearn to try

And block the insidious entry, there they lie,

Whom the herald summons urging them to rise.

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Ah, alas! It is he! See there, the shadows pass!

From Arcturus, the North Wind soon separates.

The star about the Pole conceals its bright rays.

Towards the east the Plough its brief journey makes.

Dawn now breaks; sunlight rakes the swollen seas;

Now, alas! It is he!

Note: The third verse suggests a summer sky in northern latitudes, say late July, when Arcturus sets in the north-west at dawn.

Guillaume de Poitiers (1071-1127)

William or Guillem IX, called The Troubador, was Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony and Count of Poitou, as William VII, between 1086, when he was aged only fifteen, and his death. Refusing to take part in the first crusade of 1098, he was one of the leaders of the minor Crusade of 1101 which was a military failure. He was the 'first' troubadour, that is, the first recorded vernacular lyric poet, in the Occitan language. Threatened with excommunication several times for his dissolute life and challenges to Church authority, he was later reconciled. He married his 'step-daughter' Anor, to his son, later Guilhem X, and in turn their daughter Alianor (Eleanor), Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitou, became Queen of France, and by her second marriage to Henry, Duke of Normandy, later Henry II, became Queen of England also. She was the mother of the Young King Henry, Richard Coeur de Lion, Geoffrey of Brittany and John Lackland.

Ab la dolchor del temps novel

Out of the sweetness of the spring,

The branches leaf, the small birds sing,

Each one chanting in its own speech,

Forming the verse of its new song,

Then is it good a man should reach

For that for which he most does long.

From finest sweetest place I see

No messenger, no word for me,

So my heart can't laugh or rest,

And I don't dare try my hand,

Until I know, and can attest,

That all things are as I demand.

This love of ours it seems to be

Like a twig on a hawthorn tree

That on the tree trembles there

All night, in rain and frost it grieves,

Till morning, when the rays appear

Among the branches and the leaves.

So the memory of that dawn to me

When we ended our hostility,

And a most precious gift she gave,

Her loving friendship and her ring:

Let me live long enough, I pray,

Beneath her cloak my hand to bring.

I've no fear that tongues too free

Might part me from Sweet Company,

I know with words how they can stray

In gossip, yet that's a fact of life:

No matter if others boast of love,

We have the loaf, we have the knife!

Note: Pound quotes the phrase 'Ab la dolchor' at the start of Canto XCI.

Farai un vers de dreyt nien

I've made a song devoid of sense:

It's not of me or other men

Of love or being young again,

Or other course,

Rather in sleep I found it when

Astride my horse.

I know not what hour I was born:

I'm not happy nor yet forlorn,

I'm no stranger yet not well-worn,

Powerless I,

Who was by fairies left one morn,

On some hill high.

I can't tell whether I'm awake

Or I'm asleep, unless men say.

It almost makes my poor heart break

With every sigh:

Not worth a mouse though, my heart-ache,

Saint Martial, fie!

I'm ill, I'm afraid of dying;

But of what I hear know nothing;

I'd call a doctor for his learning,

But which, say I?

He's a good doctor if I'm improving,

Not, if I die.

I've a lover, but who is she?

She, by my faith, I never could see;

Nothing she did to hurt or please,

So what, say I?

In my house, no French or Norman

Shall ever lie.

I never saw her, yet love her true,

She never was faithful or untrue;

I do well when she's not in view,

Not worth a cry,

I know a nobler, fairer too

To any eye.

I've made the verse, don't know for who;

I'll send it on to someone new,

Who'll send it on towards Anjou,

Or somewhere nigh,

So its counter-key from his casket he'll

Send, by and by.

Note: The last two lines remain perplexing, but suggest that Guillaume was inviting a similarly ironic song, a counter or duplicate, in reply.

Pus vezem de novelh florir

Since we see, fresh flowers blowing

Field and meadow greenly glowing,

Stream and fountain crystal flowing

Fair wind and breeze,

It's right each man should live bestowing

Joy as he please.

Of love I'll speak nothing but good.

Why've I not had all that I could?

Likely I've had all that I should;

For readily,

It grants joy to one who's understood

Love's boundary.

It's been the same all of my days,

I've had no joy of love, always,

Too late now to change my ways;

For knowingly

I've done much of which my heart says:

'That's nullity. '

For this reason I win less pleasure:

What I can't have I always treasure;

And yet the saying proves true forever:

For certainly:

'To good heart comes good luck in measure' -

Suffer joyfully!

You will never prove faithful to

Love, unless you're submissive too,

And to neighbours and strangers you

Act quite humbly,

And to all who live within its view

Obediently.

Obedience we must ever show,

To others, if we'd love, and so

It's fitting that from us should flow

True courtesy;

We must not speak at court as though

Born vilely.

This verse I'll say to you is worth

More if you'll comprehend it first,

And praise the words, I gave them birth

Consistently,

I too will praise, as finest on earth,

Its melody.

My Stephen, though here I keep my berth,

There presently,

I trust you'll read this, and of its worth

Give guarantee.

Mout jauzens me prenc en amar

Great the joy that I take in love,

A joy where I can take my ease,

And then in joy turn as I please,

Once more with the best I move,

For I am honoured, she's above

The best that man can hear or see.

I, as you know, small credit take,

Nor for myself claim any power,

Yet if ever a joy should flower,

This one should, and overtake

All others, Earth from shadows wake

Like the sun in a gloomy hour.

No man can fashion such a thing,

By no wish of his, no desire,

Nor by thought or dream aspire

To such joy, as she will bring,

All year I could her praises sing

And not tell all before I tire.

All joys are humbled, all must dance

To her law, and all lords obey

My lady, with her lovely way

Of greeting, her sweet pleasant glance,

A hundred years of life I'd grant

To him who has her love in play.

Her joy can make the sick man well,

And through her anger too he dies,

And fools she fashions of the wise,

And handsome men age at her spell,

And status, wealth she can dispel

And raise the beggar to the skies.

Since man can find no better here,

That lips can tell of, eyes can see,

I wish to keep her close by me.

To render my heart fresh and clear,

Renew the flesh too, so the sere

Winds of age blow invisibly.

If she'll grant her love in measure,

My gratitude I'll then declare,

And conceal it and flatter there,

Speak and act all for her pleasure;

Carefully I'll prize my treasure,

And sing her praises everywhere.

I daren't send this by another,

I have such fear of her disdain,

Nor go myself, and go in vain,

Nor forcefully make love to her;

Yet she must know I am better

Since she heals my wound again.

Farai chansoneta nueva

I'll make a little song that's new,

Before wind, frost, and rain come too;

My lady tests me, and would prove

How, and in just what way, I am

In love, yet despite all she may do

I'd rather be stuck here in this jam.

I'd rather deliver myself and render

Whatever will write me in her charter,

No, don't think I'm under the weather,

If in love with my fine lady I am,

Since it seems I can't live without her,

So great the hunger of sire for dam.

For she is whiter than ivory,

So there can be no other for me.

If there's no help for this, and swiftly,

And my fine lady love me, goddamn,

I'll die, by the head of Saint Gregory,

If she'll not kiss me, wherever I am!

What good will it be to you, sweet lady,

If your love keeps you distant from me?

Are you hankering after a nunnery?

Know this then: so in love I am,

I'm fearful lest pure sadness claim me,

If you don't right my wrongs, madam.

What good if I seek a monastery,

And you don't keep tight hold of me?

All the joy of the world we'd see,

Lady if we were ewe and ram.

To my friend Daurostre, I make this plea,

That he sing (not bray) this at my command:

For her I shiver and tremble,

Since with her I so in love am;

Never did any her resemble,

In beauty, since Eve knew Adam.

Pos de chantar m'es pres talentz

Since my mood urges me to sing

I'll make a verse, of my grieving:

Yet not serve Love in anything,

In Poitou or in Limousin.

Now to exile I have come:

In great fear and danger's room,

And fierce war I'll leave my son,

By his neighbours ill is planned.

This parting now makes me rue

The Seigneury of Poitou!

Fulk of Angers keeps it true,

With his kin, all the land.

If Fulk fails these lands to succour,

And the king, from whom's my honour,

Then that crew will bring dishonour

Gascon felons and Angevin.

If neither good nor worth he knows,

When I'm gone from you, suppose

They'll quickly cause his overthrow

Knowing him young: but half a man.

Mercy I ask of each companion,

If I have wronged him may he pardon;

And I ask it of Jesus in heaven

Both in Latin and Romance.

I was of joy and chivalry,

But now of both I must be free;

And to Him I now take me,

Where sinner finds his goal at hand.

Happiness, gaiety have I seen

But our Lord bans what has been;

Will not suffer such ill scenes,

When so near my end I stand.

All have I left for love of Him,

Chivalry and pride grow dim;

And if God please, he'll gather me in,

And I pray keep me at his right hand.

I ask that my friends at my death

Come but to honour my last breath,

For I have had both joy and mirth

Near and far, and in palace grand.

So, I abandon joy and mirth,

Vair, sable, ermine: I'll naked stand.

Note: Fulk is Foulques V of Anjou (its capital Angers) also known as Foulques the Younger, Count of Anjou 1109-1129, and King of Jerusalem from 1131 to his death in 1143.

Jaufre Rudel (d. c. 1148)

The Castellan of Blaye, he flourished early to mid 12th century and probably died during the Second Crusade, 1147-9. His 13th century vida or biography claims he fell in love with the Countess of Tripoli without ever having seen her and after taking ship for Tripoli fell ill during the voyage, ultimately dying in the arms of his 'love afar'.

Lanquan li jorn son lonc e may

When the days are long, in May,

Sweet the songs of birds afar,

And when I choose from there to stray,

I bring to mind a love that's far.

I walk face lowered, and I glower,

And neither song nor hawthorn flower,

Can please me more than winter's ice.

I hold the Lord for truth always

By whom was formed this love afar,

But for each good that comes my way

Two ills I find, since she's so far.

Would I were a pilgrim at this hour,

So staff and cloak from her tower,

She'd gaze on with her lovely eyes!

What joy it will be to seek that day,

For love of God, that inn afar,

And, if she wishes, rest, I say,

Near her, though I come from afar,

For words fall in a pleasant shower

When distant lover has the power,

With gentle heart, joy to realise.

Sad, in pain, would I go away,

Should I not see that love afar.

For I don't know when I may

See her, the distance is so far.

So many the roads and ways lower,

That indeed I can say no more,

But let all things be as she likes.

The delights of love I never may

Enjoy, if not joy of my love afar,

No finer, nobler comes my way,

From any quarter: near or far.

So rich and high is her dower,

That there in the Saracen's tower

For her sake I would be their prize.

God that made all that goes or stays

And formed this love from afar

Grant me the power to hope one day

I'll see this love of mine afar,

Truly, and in a pleasant hour,

So that her chamber and her bower,

Might seem a palace to my eyes.

Who calls me covetous, truth to say,

Is right, I long for a love afar,

For no other joy pleases me today

Like the joy in my love from afar.

Yet what I wish is not in my power,

It is my godfather's curse, so sour,

That I love, yet love should be denied.

For what I wish is not in my power,

Cursed my godfather's word so sour,

Who has ruled my love should be denied.

Quan lo rius de la fontana

When the sweet fountain's stream

Runs clear, as it used to do,

And there the wild-roses blow,

And the nightingale, on the bough,

Turns and polishes, and makes gleam

His sweet song, and refines its flow,

It's time I polished mine, it would seem.

Oh my love, from a land afar,

My whole heart aches for you;

No cure can I find, for this no

Help but your call, I vow,

With love's pangs sweetest by far,

In a curtained room or meadow,

Where I and the loved companion are.

I shall lack that forever though,

So no wonder at my hunger now;

For never did Christian lady seem

Fairer - nor would God wish her to -

Nor Jewess nor Saracen below.

With manna he's fed as if in dream,

Who of her love should win a gleam!

No end to desire will my heart know

For her, whom I love most, I vow;

I fear lest my will should cheat me,

If lust were to steal her from me too.

For sharper than thorns this pain and woe

The sadness that joy heals swiftly,

For which I want no man's pity.

Without parchment brief, I bestow

On Filhol the verses I sing now,

In the plain Romance tongue, that he

May take them to Uc le Brun, anew.

They rejoice in it, I'm pleased to know,

In Poitou, and in Berry,

In Guyenne, and Brittany.

Note: Uc le Brun is Uc VII of Lusignan, who had taken the cross for the Second Crusade in 1147. Filhol is the name of the joglar (jongleur, or minstrel)

No sap chanter qui so no di

No one can sing where no melody is,

Or fashion verse with words unclear,

Or know how the rhymes should appear,

If his logic inwardly goes amiss;

But my own song begins like this:

My song gets better, the more you hear.

Let no man wonder about me,

If I love one I've never known,

My heart joys in one love alone,

That of one who'll never know me;

No greater joy do I welcome gladly,

Yet I know not what good it may be.

I am struck by a joy that kills me,

And pangs of love that so ravish

All my flesh, body will perish;

Never before did I so fiercely

Suffer like this, and so languish,

Which is scarce fitting or seemly.

How often do I close my eyes

And know my spirit is fled afar;

Never such sadness that my heart

Is far from where my lover lies;

Yet when the clouds of morning part,

How swiftly all my pleasure flies.

I know I've never had joy of her,

Never will she have joy of me,

Nor promise herself, nor will she

Ever now take me as her lover;

No truth or lie does she utter,

To me: and so it may ever be.

The verse is good, I have not failed,

All that is in it is well placed;

He whose lips it may chance to grace,

Take care it's not hacked or curtailed

When Bertran in Quercy's assailed,

Or, at Toulouse, the Count you face.

The verse is good, and they'll be hailed

For something they'll do in that place.

Marcabru (fl. 1130-1150)

Marcabru was a powerful influence on later poets who adopted the trobar clus style. He experimented, as here, with the pastorela. Among his patrons were William X of Aquitaine and, probably, Alfonso VII of Leon. Marcabru may have travelled to Spain in the entourage of Alfonso Jordan, Count of Toulouse, in the 1130s. In the 1140s he was a propagandist for the Reconquista, of Spain from the Moors.

A la fontana del vergier

In an orchard down by the stream,

Where at the edge the grass is green,

In the shade of an apple-tree,

By a plot of flowers all white,

Where spring sang its melody,

I met alone without company

One who wishes not my solace.

She was a young girl, beautiful,

Child of the lord of that castle;

But when I thought the songbirds' call

Might, from its tree, make her heart light,

And sweet the fresh season all,

And she might hear my prayers fall,

A different look did cross her face.

Her tears flowed, the fount beside,

And from her heart her prayer sighed.

'Jesus, King of the World,' she cried,

'Through you my grief is at its height,

Insult to you confounds me, I

Lose the best of this world wide:

He goes to serve and win your grace.

With you goes my handsome friend,

The gentle, noble, and brave I send;

Into great sorrow I must descend,

Endless longing, and tears so bright.

Ai! King Louis to ill did tend

Who gave the order and command,

That brought such grief to my heart's space! '

When I heard her so, complaining,

I went to her, by fountain's flowing:

'Lady,' I said 'with too much crying

Your face will lose its colour quite;

And you've no reason yet for sighing,

For he who makes the birds to sing,

Will grant you joy enough apace. '

'My lord,' she said, 'I do believe

That God will have mercy on me

In another world eternally,

And many other sinners delight;

But here he takes the thing from me

That is my joy; small joy I see

Now that he's gone so far away. '

Cercamon (fl. c. 1137-1152)

Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn. He was the inventor of the planh, the Provencal dirge, and some circumstantial evidence points to his having died on crusade as a follower of Louis VII of France.

Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis

When the sweet air turns bitter,

And leaves fall from the branch,

And birds their singing alter

Still I, of him, sigh and chant,

Amor, who keeps me closely bound,

He that I never had in my power.

Alas! I gained nothing from Amor

But only had pain and torment,

For nothing is as hard to conquer

As that on which my desire is bent!

No greater longing have I found,

Than for that which I'll lack ever.

In a jewel I rejoice, in her

So fine, no other's felt my intent!

When I'm with her I dumbly stutter,

Cannot utter my words well meant,

And when we part I seem drowned,

Loss of all sense and reason suffer.

All the ladies a man saw ever

Compared to her aren't worth a franc!

When on earth the shadows gather,

Where she rests, all is brilliant.

Pray God I'll soon with her be wound,

Or watch her as she mounts the stair.

I startle and I shake and shiver

Awake, asleep, on Love intent,

So afraid that I might wrong her,

I don't dare ask for what I meant,

But two or three years' service downed,

Then she'll know the truth I offer.

I live nor die, nor am made better

Nor feel my sickness though intense,

Since with her Love I want no other,

Nor know if I'll have it or when,

For in her mercy does all abound,

That can destroy me or deliver.

It pleases me when she makes me madder,

Makes me muse, or in gaping rent!

It's fine if she plays the scorner

Laughs in my face, or at fingers' end,

For, after the bad, the good will sound,

And swiftly, should that be her pleasure.

If she wants me not, I'd rather

I'd died the day my service commenced!

Ah, alas! So sweet she did murder

Me, when she gave her Love's assent,

And tied me with such knots around,

That I desire to see no other.

All anxiously I delight in her,

For whether I fear or court her then

Is up to her; or be false or truer,

Trick her, or prove all innocent,

Or courteous or vile be found,

Or in torment, or take my leisure.

But, who it may please or who astound,

She may, if she wants, retain me there.

Say I: scarce courteous is he crowned,

The man who shall of Love despair.

Rigaut de Berbezilh (fl. 1140-1163)

Rigaut, also Richart or Richartz, de Berbezilh, also Berbezill or Barbesiu, French: Rigaud de Barbezieux, Latin: Rigaudus de Berbezillo, was of the petty nobility of Saintonge. He was a major influence on the Sicilian School and is quoted in the Roman de la Rose. The Planh below was previously attributed, by Pound and others, to Bertran de Born.

Si tuit li dol e? lh plor e? lh marrimen

If all the grief and woe and bitterness

The pain, the harm and all the misery

Yet heard of in this grievous century

Were set together, they would seem but light

Against the death of the young English king.

He leaves worth clouded, and youth dolorous,

The world obscure, shadowed and in darkness,

Void of all joy, full of despair and sadness.

In pain and sadness, full of bitterness

Are left behind the courteous soldiery,

The troubadours, the subtle minstrelsy,

In Death they find a foe of greater might,

Who's taken from them the young English king,

That made the freest hand seem covetous.

There are no more, nor were in past excess

Of this world, the tears to drown such sadness.

Relentless Death, so full of bitterness,

Well may you boast now the most knightly

Chevalier you have taken, best of any,

For there is nothing worthy of delight

That belonged not to this young English king;

If it pleased God, it were better for us

That he should live than many of the rest

Who offer us no joy but grief and sadness.

From this pale world, so full of bitterness

Love flies, his deceits must be taken lightly,

Nothing is his indeed but pains us swiftly;

And less than yesterday is each day's light.

All saw themselves in this young English king

Who of the world was the most virtuous;

Gone is his body, amorous in finesse,

Leaving us pain, and discord, and great sadness.

He whom it pleased in all our bitterness

To come to earth to raise us from misery,

And died His death, to bring us victory,

Him do we ask, of mercy, Lord of right

And of humility, that the young English king

He please to pardon, if pardon be for us,

And with honoured companions grant him rest,

There where there is no grief, nor any sadness.

Note: The young English king was the charismatic Henry Plantagenet (1155-1183) an elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion, and twice crowned king in his father Henry II's lifetime, a Capetian custom. He predeceased his father, and so never wielded power, dying of dysentery while on campaign in the Limousin.

Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1145-1175)

According to the troubadour Uc de Saint Circ, Bernart was the son of a baker at the castle of Ventadour or Ventadorn, in the Correze. His first patron was Viscount Eble III of Ventadorn. He composed his first poems for his patron's wife, Marguerite de Turenne. Uc de Saint Circ has him ultimately withdrawing to the Cistercian abbey of Dalon and dying there.

'Like to the lark ascending, in the air,

first singing and then silent,

content with the final sweetness that sates her. '

Dante - Paradiso XX:73-75
Can vei la lauzeta mover

When I see the lark display

His wings with joy against the day,

Forgetting, fold then fall away,

As sweetness to his heart makes way,

Such great envy then invades

My mind: I see the rest take fire,

And marvel at it, for no way

Can my heart turn from its desire.

Ah, I so dearly wished to know

Of love, yet so little learn,

For I cannot keep from loving her

Who will not have me, though I burn.

She stole my heart, and all of me,

And she herself, and worlds apart;

Lacking herself, now nothing's left

But longing and the willing heart.

For 'I' has no power over 'I'

Nor has had since the day I know

I let myself gaze in her eye,

The mirror that pleased me so.

Mirror, now I'm mirrored in you,

Profound sighs are killing me,

I lost myself as he did too

Narcissus gazing in the deep.

Of every lady I despair!

And in them I can place no trust!

Those I once would seek to cheer

Leave them cheerless now I must.

Seeing her then who won't have me,

She who destroys me and confounds,

I doubt them all and can't believe,

Knowing them other than they're found.

My lady shows herself, not to my good,

A woman indeed, scorns my behest,

Since she wishes not what she should

But what's forbidden her finds best.

Now I'm fallen from all grace,

I've done well on the asses' bridge!

And don't know why I'm in disgrace,

Except I've asked a world too much.