Ara·m platz, Giraut de Borneill,
Que sapcha per c'anatz blasman
Trobar clus, ni per cal semblan.
Si tan prezatz
So que es a toz comunal;
Car adonc tut seran egual.
Seign'en Lignaura, no·m coreill
Si qecs s'i trob'a son talan.
Mas eu son jujaire d'aitan
Qu'es mais amatz
E plus prezatz
Qui·l fa levet e venarsal;
E vos no m'o tornetz a mal.
Giraut, non voill qu'en tal trepeil
Torn mos trobars; que ja ogan
Lo lauzo·l bon e·l pauc e·l gran.
Ja per los faz
Non er lauzatz,
Car non conoisson (ni lor cal)
So que plus car es ni mais val.
Lingnaura, si per aiso veil
Ni mon sojorn torn en affan
Sembla que·m dopte del mazan.
A que trobatz
Si non vos platz
C'ades o sapchon tal e cal?
Que chanz non port'altre cabtal.
Giraut, sol que·l miels appareil
E·l dig'ades e·l trag'enan,
Mi non cal sitot non s'espan.
C'anc granz viutaz
Non fon denhtatz:
Per so prez'om mais aur que sal,
E de tot chant es atretal.
Lingnaura, fort de bon conseill,
Etz fis amans contrarian,
E per o si n'ai mais d'affan.
Mos sos levatz,
Lo·m deissazec e·l diga mal,
Que no·l deing ad home sesal.
Giraut, per cel ni per soleil
Ni per la clardat que resplan,
Non sai de que·ns anam parlan,
Ni don fui natz,
Si soi torbatz
Tan pes d'un fin joi natural.
Can d'als cossir, no m·es coral.
Lingnaura, si·m gira·l vermeil
De l'escut cella cui reblan,
Qu'eu voill dir "a Deu mi coman".
Cals fols pensatz
M'a mes doptanza deslial!
No·m soven com me fes comtal?
Giraut, greu m'es, per San Marsal,
Car vos n'anatz de sai nadal.
Lingnaura, que ves cort rial
M'en vauc ades ric e cabal.
Now, I'd like to know, Giraut de Bornelh,
why you go criticizing
Trobar Clus, and why it's important.
So tell me, please,
why it means so much to you
that everything be common to all,
for then all would be equal.
Lord Lignaura, I don't object
to each man composing as he desires
but it is my opinion
that [the song] is more to be cherished
and more praiseworthy
when it's light and popular
– and don't misinterpret me here.
I don't want my songs
turning into some kind of fracas;
may the good, the small and the great
never again praise them.
They'll never find favour with fools
for they don't recognize (nor do they care),
what is most precious and worthy.
Lignaura, if that were to keep me awake at nights,
or my pleasant days to turn to misery,
it would look as though I were afraid of being in the public eye
so why compose,
if you don't want everyone to understand
For that is all a song is worth.
Giraut, my habit is to create the best,
to compose and speak it straightaway,
it doesn't matter to me if it doesn't go far
for nothing base
was ever prized:
for that reason gold is worth more than salt.
The same applies to songs.
Lignaura, you give such good advice
but you really are a lover of argument,
and that's why I'm more perplexed than ever.
I'd rather any old gravelly-voiced singer
Sing my noble song badly,
for I don't deem it worthy
of anyone of greater standing.
Giraut, by heaven, and by the Sun
and by the clear light that shines across the sky,
I don't know what we're talking about
nor do I know where I come from
I'm in such a giddy state,
for I think so much about that natural, noble joy
that I can't think about anything else.
Lignaura, the lady I serve turns
the crimson side
of the shield towards me,
so I think, "May God help me".
This foolish, rash thought!
Has made me think disloyally.
Surely I remember how she made me a comtal?
Giraut, by Saint Martial, I'm sorry
that you're leaving here at Christmas.
Lignaura, I'm off to a royal court
that's rich and noble.