Spillemanden
I Landsbyen gaaer det saa lystigt til,
Der holdes et Bryllup med Dands og Spil;
Der drikkes Skaaler i Viin og Mjød,
Men Bruden ligner en pyntet Død.
Ja død hun er for sin Hjertenskjær,
Thi han er ikke som Brudgom her,
I Krogen han staaer med Sorgen sin,
Og spiller saa lystig paa Violin.
Han spiller til Lokkerne blive ham graae,
Han spiller saa Strængene briste maae,
Til Violinen, med Sorg og Gru,
Han trykker mod Hjertet reent itu.
Det er saa tungt, saa knusende tungt,
At døe mens Hjertet endnu er ungt!
Jeg mægter ei længer at see derpaa!
Jeg føler det gjennem mit Hoved gaae.
See, Mændene holde ham fast i Favn —
— Men hvorfor nævne I mig ved Navn?
Vor Herre bevare Enhvers Forstand!
Jeg selv er en fattig Spillemand.
The fiddler
So merry the village, around folk prance
They’re holding a wedding with play and dance.
On wine and mead those invited sup;
The bride though looks more like death dressed up.
Well, dead she is for her groom to be,
For he’s not here midst this revelry,
To drown his sorrows he’s at the inn,
And merrily playing his violin.
He plays away till his locks turn grey,
He plays so the strings must all give way,
Until the fiddle, from pains and aches
Against his heart’s pressed until it breaks.
It’s hard to bear, feels heavy as lead
With a heart still young to soon be dead!
I can’t bear to watch it anymore!
It torments my head like an open sore.
The men hold him tightly though caringly –
But why are all of you naming me?
The Good Lord preserve us, it can’t be true!
A helpless poor fiddler I am too.
No comments:
Post a Comment