Monday, 18 February 2019

'Den dyre Kaabe' - a song from Queen Sophia's Song Book

Den dyre kaabe

Thett war skiønnen iomfrue,
hun ganger y lunden saa ienne:
møder hinder fouveren unger-suend
udi thi grønner enge.
:: Alt om en somerssens morgenn. ::

‘Well møtt, fowerenn ungen-suend,
udi thesse grønner ennge!
thager y begis wor kabe,
y reder oss enn seng theraff!’

‘Ieg breder icke min kabe under thig,
thend er aff skarlagen grøenn:
bliffuer hun et sind y dogenn bløtt,
hun rømper y huer end søem.

Ieg breder icke min kobe under thig,
hun er af skarlagenn niu:
allenn stod meg XV mark,
ieg kiøbtenn y Stackholems biu.’

‘Mynn moder hun bour her nør y by,
hun haffuer thi bolster fem:
y bider meg, fouveren unger-suend,
men ieg henther oss ien aff dem!

Min moder hun boer her nør y biu,
hun haffuer thi bolster ni:
y bider meg, fouvren unger-suend,
men ieg henther oss ien aff di!’

Hun slou kobenn øffuer hanns hoffuit,
bad, hannd skulde stannde och bide:
hun gick bourt, hun kom icke igienn,
hun sueg hannom under lide.

Hun slo kobenn offuer hanns hoffuit,
bad, hannd skulde bide enn stund:
hun gick bourtt, kom aller igienn,
hun sueg hannom mange fald.

Bourtt tha gick thenn skiønne iomfrue,
saa hierthelig hun loe:
hindis kabe thend war aff gyldenn-støcke,
hindis kiorttell paa iorden drog.

Hand stod ther y dag, hannd stod ther y tho,
udi thi grønne ennge:
icke kom thend skiønne iomfrue
med kleder thill thieris sennge.

Thett stod saa fra paaske
och enndthill pindtz-dags thide:
icke tha thuorde thennd unger-suend
thill kierkenn for thend iomfrue ride.

Thennd suend hannd kom for kiercke-døer,
och hand thennd iomfrue kiende:
‘Huor bleff the goude wille, wy haffde thill-sammell?
hui fick thet saa skiden en ende?’

‘Thett matt thu thacke din kabe for,
hun war aff skarlagen ny:
allen stod deg femttann marck,
thu kiøbt-en i Stackholoms by.

Thet matt thu thacke din kabe for,
thu hagde then alt saa kier:
hagde hun bløffuen y dogen bløtt,
hun hagde rømpet y huerende søm.

Hør thu, herre Mognos!
alt om thu wilt mig thro:
ieg bød theg enganng ett hoffmandtz-bud,
thu thuord icke thage ther-emod.

Hagde ieg werit en skiøn unger-suend som thu,
och hagde meg en iomfrue møtt:
hagde min kobe werit aff gyllden-støcker,
y dogen thuorde ieg hinder bløtt.’

:: Alt om en somerssens morgen. ::

The costly cloak

There was a beautiful maiden
she walks in a grove on her own:
a handsome man chances to meet her there
in green meadows all alone.
:: All on a bright summer morning.::

‘Well met, you fine and handsome young man,
out in these meadows so green!
take you our cloaks and make us a bed
that’s fit for a king and his queen!’

‘My cloak I will never spread under you,
it’s made of best scarlet so green:
were it made the merest bit moist by dew
it would come apart at each seam!

My cloak I will never spread under you,
of fine new scarlet it’s wrought:
full XV marks by the ell it cost –
in Stockholm town it was bought.’

‘My mother lives near in the town due north,
five cushions no less does she own:
just wait for me, you handsome young man,
while I fetch one now for our throne!

My mother lives near in a town due north,
nine cushions no less does she own:
just wait for me, you handsome young man,
while I fetch one to grace our throne!’

Over his head she spread his cloak,
she bade him wait and stand still:
off she went, and did not come again,
she tricked him below the hill.

Over his head she spread his cloak,
she bade him wait for a while:
off she went, and did not come again,
she tricked him there with great guile.

Off the lovely maiden went,
laughed at him then with great mirth:
her cloak it was of gold brocade
her kirtle it touched the earth.

He stood there one day, he stood there two,
out in the meadow so fair;
the lovely maiden ne’er returned
with clothes for to line their lair.

So things stood from Easter
right up to Whitsuntide:
the young man all that time for the maid
to the church did not dare ride.

The young man came then to the church,
where he recognised the maid:
‘What became of the goodwill we once shared?
why have I been so betrayed?’

‘That you must thank your fine cloak for
the one of new scarlet wrought:
that cost you XV marks by the ell
and in Stockholm town was bought.

That you must thank your fine cloak for,
that too dear to you has been:
the one that if moistened by the dew
would come apart at each seam!

Just listen here, Sir Magnus!
Believe it or not, it’s true:
You did not dare accept what I
most graciously once offered you.

Had I been a handsome man like you,
and a maiden I had met:
though my cloak had been of gold brocade
with dew I’d have let it get wet.’
:: All on a bright summer morning. ::

Danish medieval ballad: 'Hr. Torbens datter og hendes faderbane' in English translation

Torbens datter og hendes faderbane

Vi vare saa mange søskende smaa,
              – under lide –
saa aarlig faldt os faderen fraa.
Der dagen han dages, og duggen den driver saa vide.

Om en søndag ad aften skured de deres spjud,
              – under lide –
om en mandag ad morgen rede de saa vrede ud.
       Der dagen han dages, og duggen den driver saa vide.

Der de komme for norden skov,
der gik hr. Torben og holdt sin plov.

‘Her gaar du hr. Torben, favr og fin,
jeg vil nu have bod for frænde min.’

‘Jeg vil give eder hus og gaard,
dertil min datter, saa væn en maar.’

‘Vi er ikke kommen for hus eller jord,
men vi er kommen for dit hjerteblod.’

Saa hugge de hr. torben saa smaa
alt som løv, udi lunden laa.

Saa rede de til hr. Torbens gaard,
ude stod hans datter, den væne maar.

Ude stod hans datter, saa smal som en vaand,
met et guldkar paa hver sin haand.

Hun skænked deri med lyst og spil,
hun drak først sin faders banemand til.

‘Havde jeg vidst, du havde været saa god,
aldrig skulde jeg set din faders hjerteblod.’

‘Og har I slaget min fader til død,
da har I gjort mig saa stor en nød.’

‘Har jeg ikke gjort vel mod dig,
da skal du herefter have saa godt som jeg.’

Han satte hende paa ganger graa,
saa slog han over hende kaaben blaa.

Saa red han over de sorte heder,
              – under lide –
aldrig saa hun sin fader mere.
       Der dagen den dages, og duggen den driver saa vide.

Torben’s daughter and her father’s murderer

We all were his offspring but barely,
              – by the hillside –
when we all lost our father so early.
The day it is dawning, and dew it is drifting so worldwide.

On a Sunday evening their spears they did sharpen,
              – by the hillside –
On a Monday morning they rode, their hearts hardened.
       The day it is dawning, and dew it is drifting so worldwide.

North of the wood rode this fearsome band
and found Sir Torben, tilling his land.

‘Ah, handsome Sir Torben, with your consent,
To avenge my kinsman’s my firm intent.’

‘For this my house, my estate I’ll trade,
also my daughter, so fair a maid.’

‘We have not come here for house or for land,
Your own heart’s blood is what we demand.’

They hacked Sir Torben in pieces so small,
like leaves in the grove they looked withal.

Then off to Sir Torben’s estate they made
outside stood his daughter, the fair, sweet maid.

Outside stood his daughter,as slim as a wand,
with a golden vessel in either hand.

She filled them both full to quench their thirst,
she toasted her father’s murderer first.

‘Had I but known you were kind and good,
I’d never have shed your father’s heart’s blood.’

‘If my father you’ve killed, why then I confess,
You are the source of my great distress.’

‘Should I unkindly to you have been,
From now on you’ll live just as well as me.'

He placed her then on his ash-grey steed,
With a blue cloak covered her in her need.

Then rode he over the ink-black moor
              – by the hillside –
Her father – she saw him never more
The day it is dawning, and dew it is drifting so worldwide.

Another song from the Antwerp Song Book of 1544

Ic sie den dach opdringen

Het viel eens hemels douwe
Voor mijns liefs vensterkijn.
Ick en weet gheen schoonder vrouwe,
Si staet int herte mijn.
Si hout myn herte bevangen,
T’welck is so seer doorwont;
Mocht ic haer troost ontfanghen,
So waer ic gansch ghesont.

Die winter is verganghen,
Ic sie des meys virtuyt:
Ic sie die looverkens hangen,
Die bloemen spruyten in’t cruyt.
In gheenen groenen dale
Daer ist genoechlijc zijn,
Daer singhet die nachtegale
Ende so menich voghelkijn.

Ic wil den mey gaen houwen
Voor myns liefs veynsterkijn
Ende scencken myn lief trouwe,
Die alderliefste mijn.
Ende segghen: ‘lief, wilt comen
Voor u cleyn vensterken staen.
Ontfaet den mey met bloemen,
Hi is so schoone ghedaen.’

T’meysken si was beraden,
Si liet haer lief in,
Heymelic al stille,
In een cleyn camerken.
Daer lagen si twee verborghen
Een corte wijle ende niet lanc.
Die wachter op’ter mueren
Hief op een liet, hi sanck:

Och, isser yemant inne,
Die schaf hem balde van daen.
Ic sie den dach op dringhen,
Al in dat oosten opgaen.
Nu schaft u balde van henen
Tot op een ander tijt;
Den tijt sal noch wel keeren,
Dat ghi sult zyn verblijt.

Swighet, wachter, stille
Ende laet u singhen staen.
Daer is so schoone vrouwe
In mijnen armen bevaen.
Si heeft mijn herte genesen,
Twelc was so seer doorwont.
Och wachter goet gepresen,
En make’s niemant condt.'

Ic sie den dach op dringhen:
T’scheyden moet immer zijn.
Ic moet mijn dageliet singen:
Wacht u, edel ruyter fijn,
Ende maect u rasch van henen
Tot op een ander tijt;
Den tijt sal noch wel comen,
Dat ghi sult zyn verblijt!'

The day will soon be breaking

Past my love’s window gently
There fell a heavenly dew.
Her beauty so intensely
My heart it does renew.
My heart she has quite captured,
Hurt sore by many a wound;
Were it by her enraptured,
It would once more be sound.

The winter is fast waning,
I see May’s growing power:
I see the green leaves straining,
The force in every flower.
In yonder verdant vale now
Is pleasure pure and true,
There sings the nightingale now
And birds of every hue.

I’ll fetch a May sprig to her,
At my love’s window stand
And plight my troth unto her,
The dearest in the land.
And say: ‘dear heart, come to me
And show yourself at last.
Receive May’s fine flowers, truly
In beauty unsurpassed.’

The maiden stood there ready,
Her chamber door ajar,
With silent steps and steady
Her love stole in to her.
The two lay safe and sound, though
Their time was brief, not long.
The watchman on his rounds now
Began to sing this song:

Oh, time it is for waking,
for lovers to make haste.
The day will soon be breaking,
I see it in the east.
Young man, refrain from staying,
You have but little choice;
They’ll be a time for maying,
When your heart shall rejoice.

Oh watchman, stay your singing,
And do not show your face.
A maiden, sweet and clinging,
Lies in my fond embrace.
She’s healed my heart from sorrow,
Which once was wounded sore.
Oh, watchman, first tomorrow
Announce the day once more!

The birds will soon be winging:
Each parting has its time.
My song I must be singing:
Arise, you horseman fine,
Young man, desist from staying,
You have but little choice.
They’ll come a time for maying;
When your heart shall rejoice.