LXVIII / LXVIII

LXvil*

Nom pren axi com al petit vaylet

qui va cerquant senyor qui festa' faca,

tenint-lo calt en lo temps de la glaça

e fresch, d'estiu, com la calor se met;

preant molt poch la valor del senyor

econcebent desalt de sa manera,

vehent molt car que té mala carrera

de cambiar son estat en major.

éCom se fara que visca sens dolor

tenint perdut lo bé que posseÿa?

Clare molt bé ho veu, si no ha follia,

que may porà tenir estat millor.

éDonchs qué fara, puix altre bé no-l resta,

sind plorar lo bé del temps perdut?

Vehent molt clar per si ser decebut,

may trobarà quil faga millor festa.

Yo sön aquell qui'n lo temps de tempesta,

quant les més gents festegen prop los fochs

e pusch haver ab ells los propris jochs,

vaig sobre neu, descalç, ab nua testa,

servint senyor qui jamés fon vassall

nel vench esment de fer may homenatge,

en tot leig fet hagué lo cor salvatge,

solament diu que bon guardé nom fall.

Plena de seny, _leigs desigs de mi tall;

erbes no's fan males en mon ribatge;

sia entès com dins en mon coratge

los penssaments no'm devallen avall.

*From Vol. III of Poesies (a cura de Pere Bohigas) © Editorial Barcino, Barcelona,

1954.

LXvill

Not so with me as with the little page

hunts up and down a more indulgent sire

would keep him cool when summer's in a tage,

on icy nights, a-toasting by the fire;

His present lord, he grumbles, is ignoble;

groans at his ways; vexation turns to hate.

Knows in his heart along the road there's trouble

in jockeying for © advancement of estate.

How learn to live _ indifferent to disaster,

casting away the good accustomed role?

No rainbow's end ahead, no sweeter master-

now the boy knows, unless the boy's a fool.

What's to be done but sit, and sit a-weeping

as chances fade, the rejected bed and board?

Sees ina flash that what he sowed he's reaping.

No chance to find a more considerate lord.

Not so with me. _I'm such a one, come winter,

when good folk, snug in firelight, mull the rum,

and hail me toward _ hilarity, won't enter:

but walk the snow _ bareheaded, barefoot-numb

page for a lord pays reverence to no one

-reverence?-what's remoter from his mind?

His glee is any cruel coup, any low one;

he talks ofpay; come payday, deaf and blind.

Discerning girl, low lust I cut away;

no greedy weed by meadows I patrol.

Then know me well: in all my heart and soul

no thought but soars, none trailing in the clay.