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Cars, douz e fenhz del bederesc
M'es sos bas chanz, per cui m'aerc;
C'ab joi s'espan viu e noire
El tems que·lh grill pres del siure
Chantan el mur jos lo caire;
Que·s compassa e s'escaira
Sa vos, qu'a plus leu de siura
E ja uns non s'i aderga
Mas grils e la bederesca.

Car jois e genhz ses fuec grezesc
Els paucs enfanz pasc e conderc,
Que nul enjan no·i emploire.
Mas en brezill no m'aus pliure
(Don me rancur), que·l blanc-vaire
Fai fals'amistat picvaira;
Savis er fols qui s'i pliura,
Que greu er qu'en leis conderga
Fis jois ses flama grezesca.

Cars, bruns e tenhz motz entrebesc!
Pensius-pensanz enquier e serc
Com si liman pogues roire
L'estraing röill ni·l fer tiure,
Don mon escur cor esclaire.
Tot can jois genseis esclaira
Malvestaz röill'e tiura
E enclau Joven e serga
Per qu'ira e jois entrebesca.

Car naus ni lenhz ni flums on pesc
No m'es enanz, anz vei Joi berc,
Anz vauc troban com vis d'oire,
Que mont'el sill al fol yure.
Tan vei Prez dur per que·l laire
Lauzengiers conten e laira,
E sos amars ditz eniura
Prez, per que Jois fraing e berga
Que·s vol cals que·n pren e pesca.

C'ar s'es empenhz, car no m'espresc,
vidal, costanz, martin, domerc.
No·m puosc ses bran d'els decoire
(per que·m corill) c'ab un guiure
De mal äur nafro·l paire
Don lo fils sofris e paira
Malvestat, que·l nafr'e·l guiura,
E fai Constanza, Domerga,
De domnas. Que jois l'espresca!

Car petit (menhs que non paresc
Als paucs semblanz del menor derc)
Que vau doptan aur per coire,
Car al perill on ie·m liure.
Veg un tafur qe'n er fraire
(Qe·l nesi-malvatz s'afraira
Lai on lo francs-fis se liura);
E non cre Jois plus aut derga
Que·l crims nais ans que paresca.

Car com argenz esmer'e cresc
Ab dur colps granz c'om fai a clerc
Vauc castian Pretz . . .
Mas per un fill pot reviure,
Vas cui m'atur, de bon aire;
Si co·l venz va sus en l'aira
Lo sieus noms viu, e reviura
Pretz e Jois, que mong'e·s clerga.
Dieu prec qu'aital baron cresca.

Cel que fa·l vers s'acompaira
Ab leis que ja non esquiura;
Que non tem correg ni verga
Lo fuecs que compren ses esca.

raimbautz torn'e repaira
Lai on Pretz viu e reviura,–
Al comte, cui Dieus aerga,
Barselones, e Honors cresca.

Dear, sweet and secret
is the wren's low song to me,
and the reason I'm so elated.
For it lives, spreads, swells
when the crickets sing in the wall
under the block of stone by the cork oak,
and its voice, lighter than cork, is precise, with an edge.
may no-one be as elated
as the cricket, or the Lady wren.

I encourage and nurture pure,
precious Joy in little children,
without devious tactics to trick them.
I can't be sure there will be any great change
(the reason why I'm complaining),
because the one who corrupts makes false, unstable friendship.
A wise man who trusts in it will be a fool,
For it's difficult for true Joy
to flourish without trickery.

I interweave precious words, dark, tinged,
and pensively pensive, I seek and search,
just how by filing I might rub away
the alien rust, the blighted veneer,
and brighten my sombre heart.
All that Joy lights up best,
evil rusts and tarnishes,
and seeks to ensnare Youth,
thus mingling Rage with Joy.

For neither ship, boat nor river on which I fish
takes me forward, instead I see Joy dashed,
and I go giddy,
like the drunkard when wine from the goatskin goes to his head.
[The reason] I have such a harsh perception of Worth,
is because the craven gossipmonger bickers and yaps,
and his bitter words make Worth drunk,
so that Joy is broken, shattered.
Anyone who wishes this for themselves can fish for it, and take it.

And since I'm still in this state,
Vidal, Costanz, Martin, Domerc,
have pushed in, and I can't escape their clutches
without a sword (that is why I'm complaining)
for, with a viper of evil omen they wound the father,
and the son suffers and endures Evil
which wounds and poisons him
And makes unfaithful wives of Constanza
and Domerga. May Joy awaken him.

I throw myself into danger
more than I may seem to, to one of lesser rank,
since he goes mistaking gold for copper.
I see a knave who will
associate himself with me in this matter
(The way the stupid and bad always get
involved in noble, courtly affairs).
I don't believe Joy will flourish again,
for crime takes form before it becomes apparent.

For just as silver becomes finer with great, heavy blows,
like one gives to the clerks,
I go chastising Worth . . .
But it can relive, with a son of noble birth,
toward whom I'll do my best;
Just as the wind rises on the threshing floor, his name lives,
and Worth and Joy live again too;
may monk and nun
pray to God that this baron thrive.

He who makes verses will become friends
with a Lady who will never mock him;
just as the fire which lights without sparks
fears neither whip or rod.

Raimbaut is returning
to the place where Worth lives and will live again –
To the Count of Barcelona –
may God praise him and Honour raise him to the heights.