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Seigner n'Audric,
Al vostr' afic
Mout etz d'aver secos e plans,
Puois so dizetz
Que no·n avetz,
Qu'en setembre vos faill lo grans.

Lai, ves Nadal
Tot atretal
Vos faill la carns e·l vins e·l pans
Et en Pascor,
Seguon l'auctor,
Crezetz en l'agur dels albans.

S'a destre vai,
Conosc e sai,
Qu'etz de bon ostal segurans,
Si l'agurs faill
Venon badaill,
Et es blasmatz sains Julians.

Totz vostres us
Sap Marcabrus,
E totz vostre meiller bians
Del ventr' emplir,
E d'escarnir
Es, e de cossentir putans.

Quan vos totz sols
Etz ben sadols,
Non vos es ges rics gaps loindans!
Segon tas leis
As plus conqueis
Que non fetz Cesar als Romans.

De lengueiar
Contra joglar
Etz plus afilatz que milans!
Del vostre bec,
No·is jauzira ja crestians.

My lord Sir Audric,
according to you,
you're barren and stripped of means,
for you say here
that you have none
and that, in September, your wheat fails you.

Then, around Christmas,
just the same way,
you lack meat, wine and bread
and, at Easter,
according to a witness,
you read your fortune in the flight of the hobby.

If it goes right,
I know and understand
that you believe you're granted good lodgings;
if the omen fails,
then you're all gaping,
and saint Julian is blamed.

Marcabru knows
all your habits
and all your ideal ways of life:
stuffing your face,
and flouting
and welcoming harlots.

When you, alone,
are well fed,
great bluster is certainly not far away from you:
according to your tales,
you have conquered more
than Cesar did for the Romans.

To use your tongue
against a minstrel,
you have sharpened it more than a kite's.
Your bill,
Sir Everspeakill
is not something a Christian'll ever enjoy.

Note: This sirventes is in response to Audric del Vilar's Tot a estru.