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A la pus longa nuech de l'an
et al menre jorn em vengug,
e·l solelhs, per que·l mons resplan,
esta, que no·s bayssa ni fug.
Pus lo fermamens s'estanca
e·l cors de la senha·s gira,
ben es dreitz que la partz ranca
bays son erguelh e l'estanc.

Ges non es dreita, ses engan;
ni ja us non creza ni cug
aver aital patz ses afan
que vas tan ric senhoriu lug;
ab pon frag, ab frevol planca
passa gaug que torn'az ira.
E vos, nescia gent blanca,
faretz vermelh so qu'es blanc.

Que·l ducx, coms, marques no reblan,
per cuy seretz mort e vencug.
Totz l'aurs no vos val un aglan
qu'avetz dat: non es desseubug
qui son cor enclau ni tanca.
Ab fals prezicx massa l'ira,
e fora·l mielhs fraysses l'anca,
selh qu'ie·us dic: mala·l vis anc.

Qual que·us parletz, ye·us dic e·us man
que mielhs fora tug fossetz mug.
Cavaliers, membre·us de Rotlan,
qu'ad auls monedas etz vendug.
Baissaretz d'aut banc en banca
pel coms en cuy pretz se mira;
denan l'erguelh s'empalanca
cossi·us torn en vostre banc.

Folhs es qui sa semens'espan
en loc don non espera frug;
e cujon passar galian
selh qu'an per Marcian'adug.
Totz lo mons no·l val ges blanca
qui·s part ni a rey res tira
de sa senhoria franca
ni fa sers silhs qu'eron franc.

No·n puesc mai, a Dieu me coman.
Selh qu'eron ja de pretz avug
enqueron cum pretz an bayssan,
qu'ar son per vilan mentaugug.
Crezatz, si tarda, no manca
pena a selhs que Dieus adira:
lay, cum selh que ca de planca,
cairan, el brac; no cug manc.

Ja Dieus no·m sal, s'ieu o planc.

We have come to the longest night
of the year and to the shortest day
and the Sun, by which the world shines,
stays, so that it neither lowers nor flees.
Since the firmament takes a pause
and the constellations turn backwards,
it is certainly appropriate that the rotten side
lowers and curbs its pride.

It isn't a straightforward, guileless folk;
but let nobody deem or believe
he'd have such peace without strife,
who fights such a noble lordship;
it is on a broken bridge, on a measly plank
that the cheer passes that turns to sadness;
and you, clueless white people,
will turn white into crimson!

For the duke, count, marquess doesn't bend,
so that you'll be dead and defeated.
And the gold you've given
won't be worth an acorn to you: he isn't fooled
who fastens and bars his heart.
He fans the resentment with false preaching
and it would have been better had he broken his leg,
him I am talking about: unfortunately, you saw him.

Whatever you say, I tell you and let you know
that it'd be better if you had shut up.
Knights, remember Roland,
for you are sold for base coins.
You'll be thrown from a high dais to a bench
by the count in whom virtue reflects itself;
he strengthens himself in the face of your pride
so to return you to your benches.

He is a fool who wastes his seeds
in a place in which he doesn't expect fruit;
still, they think they'll pass with deception
those they have called through Sainte-Martienne.
The whole world isn't worth a trifle
to who deserts, or takes from a king something
from his lawful domain,
or makes serfs of those who were free.

I can't take it anymore, and commend myself to god.
Those who were virtuously endowed
seek ways to debase virtue,
so that they are considered the equals of villains.
Believe it: however late, there will be no want
of penance for those whom god condemns:
like those who drop from a plank, they'll fall
there, in the mud; I don't think it'd fail.

May god not save me, if I pity that.

Note: The loutish preacher mentioned in stanza three is the infamous Folquet de Marselha, who was also the head of the "white people", a violent mob of catholic fundamentalists.