Monday, 20 April 2026

Anna Bijns (1493-1575): 'Refereyn' (Het es goet vrouwe sijn, maer veel beter heere)

 


Refereyn

 

Het es goet vrouwe sijn, maer veel beter heere.

Ghij maegden, ghij weduen, onthoudt dees leere;

Niemandt hem te zeere om houwen en spoede.

Men seydt: daer geen man en es, daer en es geen eere;

Maer die gecrijgen can cost en cleere,

Niet haest haer en keere onder eens mans roede.

Dit es mijnen raedt: weest op u hoede,

Want zoo ic bevroede, ic ziet gemeene,

Als een vrouwe houdt, al esse eel van bloede,

Machtich van goede, zij crijgt aen haer beene

Eenen grooten worpriem; maer blijft zij alleene,

En zij haer reene en zuver gehouden can,

Zij es heere en vrouwe, beeter leven noeyt gheene.

Ic en acht niet cleene thouwelijck, nochtan

Ongebonden best, weeldich wijf sonder man.

 

Proper meyskens werden wel leelijcke vrouwen,

Arm danten, arm slooren; hoordt jonck metten ouwen!

Dit sou mij doen schouwen thouwelijck voorwaer.

Maer, wachermen, als zij den man eerst trouwen,

Zij meynen de liefde en mach niet vercouwen;

Dan eest hem berouwen eer een half jaer:

Och het pack des houwelijcx es alte zwaer!

Zij wetent claer, diet hebben gedraghen.

Een vrouwe maeckt door vreese menich mesbaer,

Als de man hier en daer gaet druck verjagen,

Drincken en speelen bij nachte, bij dagen;

Dan hoortmen beclagen dat ment oeyt began,

Dan en muegen u helpen vrienden oft magen.

Dus hoordt mijn gewagen en wachter u van:

Ongebonden best, weedich wijf zonder man.

 

Ooc compt de man somtijts droncken en prat,

Als dwijf haer gewracht heeft moede en mat;

Want men moet al wat doen, salmen thuys bestieren.

Wilt zij dan eens rueren haer snatergat,

Zoo werdt sij geslagen med vuysten plat;

Dat droncken vol vat moetse obedieren.

Dan doet hij niet dan kijven en tieren,

Dat sijn de manieren; wee haer diet smaeckt!

Loopt hij dan elders bij Venus camerieren,

Peyst, wat blijder chieren men thuys dan maeckt.

Ghij maegden, ghij vrouwen, aen ander u spaeckt,

Eer ghij ooc gheraeckt in zelcken gespan.

Al waert dat ghij mij al contrarie spraeckt,

Mij en roeckt wiet laeckt, ic blijver weer aan:

Ongebonden best, weeldich wijf zonder man.

 

Eene vrouwe ongehoudt moet derven smans gewin;

Zo en derf zij ooc niet wachten zijnen sin.

En, na mijn bekin, de vrijheydt es veel weerdt.

Zij en werdt niet begresen, gaet sij uut oft in;

En al moest zij leven op haer gespin,

Voorwaer veel te min zij alleen verteerdt.

Een ongebonden vrouwe werdt alom begeerdt,

Al eest datse ontbeerdt eens mans profijt,

Zij es meester en vrouwe aan haren heerdt.

Te gane onverveerdt, dats een groot jolijt.

Zij mach slapen en waken na haren appetijt,

Zonder yemandts verwijt; blijft ongebonden dan,

De vrijheyt te verliezen, geen meerder spijt.

Vroukens, wie ghij sijt, al creegdij eenen goeden Jan,

Ongebonden best, weeldich wijf zonder man.

 

                                 Princesse

 

Al es een vrouwe noch zo rijck van haven,

Veel mans die achtense als haer slaven.

Ziet toe, alse u laven met schoonen proloogen,

En gelooft niet soo saen, maer laetse draven;

Want mij dunckt, de goey mans sijn witte raven.

Acht niet wat gaven zij u bringen voor oogen;

Alse een vrouwe hebben int nette getoogen,

Es liefde vervloogen, dit sien wij wel.

Int houwen werdt menige vrouwe bedroogen,

Die moeten gedoogen groot zwaer gequel;

Haer goedt werdt verquist, de man valt haer fel.

Ten es vrij geen spel, maer noeyt zwaerder ban.

Tes somtijts om tgeldeken en niet om tvel

Dat de zelcke zoo snel liep dat hij stan.

Ongebonden best, weeldich wijf zonder man

 

 

Ballade

 

To be a woman’s fine, a man far better.

You maids, you widows keep this to the letter:

Don’t haste or fret to see yourselves soon wed.

It’s said that manless you are honour’s debtor;

If finding food and clothes though does not fetter,

Let no man master both your house and bed. 

Take my advice: Be wary where you tread

It seems to me, where’er I cast my gaze,

That if a woman choose – though nobly bred

And rich in goods – to wed she all her days

Will spend short-tethered; if alone she stays

Instead both pure and chaste she’ll, I profess,

Be mistress of a life excelling praise.

With marriage I’ve no quarrel, nonetheless

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

 

Maids fair of face make wives plain to behold,

Poor frumps, poor drudges; take care, young and old!

From wedlock’s hold I thus should clearly sheer.

Alas, once they are wed they’ve soon extolled

A love which they believe cannot grow cold;

This they will rue within just half a year:

The yoke of marriage makes life far too drear!

Of this all those who’ve wed are well aware!

And women make much clamour out of fear

When husbands seek distraction here and there,

Spend nights and days in inn and gambling lair;

Then wives swear that they rue their foolishness,

But friends and family can’t ease their care.

So stay on guard, and hear what I profess:

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

 

The man comes home at times drunk as a lord,

Pesters his wife, exhausted by her chores;

No time to pause if she the house shall run.

And should she feel like countering his roars,

He strikes her in the face or to the floor;

That drink-logged vat’s commands she may not shun.

For all he’ll do is rant and rave at one,

So are things done; poor wife who such must bear!

And if with other women he’s begun,

What joy to rule the home when he’s not there.

You maids, you women, quench your thirst elsewhere 

Ere you would hitch yourself up to distress.

Though you a view opposed to mine all share,

I simply do not care, but still profess:

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

 

Unkept, a woman must man’s wealth forgo;

His will though likewise she need never know.

And freedom, I maintain, is of great worth. 

Without account she’s free to come and go;

Though she must spin to earn her bread, all know

To feed one mouth it takes a lesser purse.

Not tied, she’s envied everywhere on earth,

And though a husband’s income is denied,

As mistress she is master of her hearth.

To freely move is joy none can deride.

To sleep or wake at will she may decide,

With none to chide – so stay untied, don’t rest.

Lost freedom is the worst ill ever tried.

Wives everywhere, though good blokes line your nest,

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.

 

                                 Princess

 

Though women may have wealth none can deny,

They’re viewed as slaves by men both low and high.

Should they with fine words ply, then stop them short

And tell them to push off if they should try;

In number good men with white ravens vie.

Away from all gifts shy that they have brought,

As soon as in their mesh the woman’s caught,

Love is as nought, it’s seen repeatedly.

In marriage man’s deception’s grimly taught,

With sorrows fraught, she suffers constantly;

He squanders all her wealth, won’t let her be.

No game for free, but heavy curse no less.

Oft money rules not love when you can see

Such men run till their lungs burst out their chest.

Not tied by husbands women prosper best.



 

Sunday, 19 April 2026

Theobald Hock (b. 23 August 1573): 'Von dem Müßseligen Leben der Menschen'



On the arduous life of humankind

 

The start, the middle and the close

Of human life so fleeting

Are all beset with fear and woes,

Regret, grief, cares unceasing.

Though each design at first seems fine,

’Tis but a vain illusion,

If viewed without confusion,

’Tis all misfortune’s shrine.

 

Our earthly life each single day

Is nought but dust and ashes.

Like sheep that in their fields do stray

We dart in frantic dashes

On savage wave – in peril grave

Both sail and anchor lacking

Around the cauldron tacking

Though Fortune would us save.

 

Our every action is forlorn

In futile toil we languish,

’Twixt hope and doubt we here are torn,

But live in constant anguish.

All woes that rend death first can end

Whereas all joy that cheers

Within this vale of tears

The will of God contends.

 

Should we decide to set things straight,

Our former life to chasten

It in some measure expiate

Then we must start to hasten.

A fruit so great, that grown by Fate,

Is what the Sister shows us:

That death its due won’t owe us

No flight can obviate.

 

Fame, profit, gain are nothing worth,

All is from nothing coming;

And all that’s come therefrom on earth

Will back thereto be homing.

Wherefore it might be more than right

Had man as man ne’er started

Since once his life is charted

His time on earth’s so slight.

 

  

Friday, 17 April 2026

Emil Aarestrup (1800-1856): 'Erkjendelse'



ERKJENDELSE

 

At ikke jeg forlængst har hængt mig

Om hendes Hals, om hendes Knæ,

Og i mit Raserie har vovet -

Ja, hun maa troe, jeg er af Træ.

 

Men det er jeg paa ingen Maade;

O, gid jeg bare var af Træ!

Men, jeg er lidt moralsk, lidt dydig,

Og derfor egentlig et Fæ.

 

 

ADMISSION

 

That long ago my arms have never

Around her neck or knees been thrown,

Despite my turmoil nought’s been ventured -

Yes, she must think I’m made of stone.

 

Yet quite the opposite describes me;

Oh, were I only made of stone!

But I’m straight-laced, a trifle prudish,

A stupid ass if it be known.

  

Thursday, 16 April 2026

B.S. Ingemann: 'Storken sidder paa Bondens Tag'


 

Storken sidder paa bondens tag

 

Storken sidder paa Bondens Tag;

Han seer over Mark og Enge.

Det bliver saa deilig en Foraarsdag;

Nu kommer den favre Tid, jeg vented saalænge.

 

Storken klapprer paa Bondens Tag,

Og Gjøgen kukker i Skoven.

Med Mailøv nu kommer skjøn Valborgs Dag;

Nu stiger der Pindseglands med Sol over Voven.

 

Storken flyver fra Bondens Tag;

Han spanker i gronne Enge.

Han kommer som Gjest til skjøn Valborgs Dag;

Han bringer den favre Tid, jeg vented saalænge.

 

Storken flyver til Hosten bort;

Han kommer igjen ad Aare.

Du Sommerens Gjest! dvæl ikke for kort!

Velkommen du favre Tid, jeg elsker saa saare!

 

 

See the stork on his farm-roof nest

 

See the stork on his farm-roof nest,

O'er meadows and fields he's gazing.

A lovely spring day will us soon have blessed,

My long-yearned for season's here with beauty amazing.

 

Hear the stork on the farm roof clack,

From woods the glad cuckoo's calling.

When trees are in leaf it means May Day's back;

Now Whitsun sun gilds the waves with lustre enthralling.

 

Now the stork leaves his farm-roof nest;

Through green meadows struts and gazes.

When May Day is here he's a much-loved guest;

He brings us the time of year whose beauty amazes.

 

Off the stork flies when autumn's nigh;

Next year he'll be back to cheer me.

You summertime guest! Delay your goodbye!

Oh welcome, fair time of year my heart loves so dearly!

 

 

B.S. Ingemann: 'Nu titte til hinanden de favre blomster smaa'

 


Nu titte til hinanden de favre blomster smaa

 

Nu titte til hinanden de favre Blomster smaa;

De muntre Fugle kalde paa hverandre;

Nu alle Jordens Børn deres Øine opslaae;

Nu Sneglen med Huus paa Ryg vil vandre.

 

Den kjære Gud og Skaber den mindste Orm er nær:

Han føder Fugl og Markens Lillie klæder;

Dog Menneskenes Børn har han allermeest kjær:

Gud aander paa Øiet, naar det græder.

 

Guds Søn var selv et Barn, og paa Krybbestraa han laae;

Hans Vugge stod paa Jord foruden Gjænge.

Guds Himmeriges Fryd har han lovet de Smaa

Og Blomster fra Paradisets Enge.

 

Guds Søn har os saa kjær; han er Børnevennen stor;

Han bærer Barnet op til Gud paa Armen;

Han Storm og Hav betvang, da han vandred paa Jord;

Men Børnene leged ham ved Barmen.

 

O Du, som os velsigned og tog i Favn de Smaa,

En Morgen see vi Dig i Paradiset!

Du lærte os til Gud vore Øine opslaae

Evindelig være Du lovpriset!

 

 

Small flowers now greet each other, they're peeping every one

 

Small flowers now greet each other, they're peeping every one;

The cheerful birds each other won't stop calling;

All earth's small children open their eyes to the sun;

The snail, house on board, will off be crawling.

 

For God our dear Creator no tiny worm's too small:

The birds he feeds, the lilies clothes in splendour;

Man's children even so are the dearest of all:

God breathes on moist eyes with mercy tender.

 

God's son was once a child, and on stable's straw he lay;

His cradle was a manger mean and lowly.

God's heavenly joy he's promised all children one day

And flowers from his heaven's meadows holy.

 

God's son holds us so dear; is the children's friend as well;

Each child to God upon his arm does carry;

 

 

He quelled the stormy wave when on earth he did dwell;

But safe at his breast do children tarry.

 

Oh you, who blessed us all, children held in your embrace,

In paradise one morning we shall view you!

You taught us to gaze upward in search of God's face -

Eternal shall be the praise that's due you!

 

 

B.S. Ingemann: 'Morgenstund har guld i mund' (1837)


 

Morgenstund har Guld i Mund

 

Morgenstund har Guld i Mund:

Morgensol Guds Rigdoms Væld oplukker;

Glad i gyldne Morgenstund

Fattigst Fugl i Straalehavet dukker.

 

Morgenglød gjør Kinden rød;

Morgenluft Guds Sundhedsbrønd omsuser:

Livets Væld i Morgenglød

Strømmer ud igjennem Himmelsluser.

 

Op i friske Morgenstund!

Fryd dig, Sjæl, som Fuglen i det Høie!

Fattigst Sjæl er riig og sund

Med Guds rige Herlighed for Øie.

 

 

Golden dawn sees us reborn

 

Golden dawn sees us reborn:

Morning sun unlocks God’s fount amazing;

Joyful in the golden dawn

Poorest bird in sea of sunlight’s bathing.

 

Dawn’s bright show sets cheeks aglow;

Morning breeze God’s spring of health enthuses:

Fount of life in dawn’s bright show

Now streams forth through heaven’s mighty sluices.

 

Greet the dawn, you soul reborn!

Sing as bird on high your joyful story!

Poorest soul is ne’er forlorn

At the wondrous sight of God’s rich glory.

 

N.F.S. Grundtvig: 'Morgenstund har Guld i Mund' (1853)

 


Morgenstund har Guld i Mund

 

Morgenstund

Har Guld i Mund,

For Natten Gud vi love,

Han lærde os, i Jesu Navn,

Som Barnet i sin Moders Favn,

Vi alle sødt kan sove!

 

Morgenstund

Har Guld i Mund,

Vi til vort Arbeid ile;

Som Fuglen glad i Skov og Vang

Udflyver med sin Morgensang,

Gienfødt ved Nattehvile!

 

Morgenstund

Har Guld i Mund,

Og Guld betyder Glæde,

Og glædelig er hver en Dag,

Som leves til Guds Velbehag,

Om end vi maatte Græde!

 

Gaae da frit

Enhver til sit,

Og stole paa Guds Naade!

Da faaer vi Lyst og Lykke til

At giøre Gavn, som Gud det vil,

Paa allerbedste Maade!

 

Soel opstaaer,

Og Soel nedgaaer,

Naar den har gjort sin Gierning,

Gud give os at skinne saa,

Som Himmellys, skiøndt af de smaa!

Da randt for os Guldterning.

 

 

Golden dawn sees us reborn

 

Golden dawn

Sees us reborn,

We praise God for night’s keeping;

He taught us all, through Jesu’s grace,

As child in mother’s warm embrace, 

Sweet rest when safely sleeping!

 

Golden dawn

Sees us reborn,

To daily work we hasten;

As birds in wood and meadow fly

With joyful song into the sky,

From night’s reincarnation!

 

Golden dawn

Sees us reborn,

And gold means joy and gladness,

And glad is he who every day

Would please his God in every way,

E’en when oppressed by sadness!

 

Freely make 

The path to take

On God’s great grace relying!

Then will our wish and fortune be

To do what’s fruitful constantly,

God’s wishes sanctifying!

 

Morning sun

Its course full run,

At evening has its setting;

God grant that we may shine as bright,

As heav’nly light, though we be slight!

Us golden joy begetting.



Tuesday, 14 April 2026

M. Vasalis: 'De winter en mijn lief zijn heen'





De winter en mijn lief zijn heen

 

De winter en mijn lief zijn heen.

Er zit een merel op het dak,

zijn keel beweegt, zijn snavel beeft

alsof hij in zichzelve sprak.

 

Hij luistert: uit een verre boom

klinkt als het ketsen van twee stenen

een vonkenregen van verlangen

zo luid, zo helder en zo bang.

 

De merel stort zich met een kreet

vol wildheid in de voorjaarsvlagen.

Ik kan het bijna niet verdragen:

mijn voorjaar en mijn lief zijn heen.

 

 

The winter and my love are gone

 

The winter and my love are gone.

Up on the roof a blackbird sits,

its throat astir, its beak aquake

as if within itself it spoke.

 

It listens: from a distant tree

there comes a sound like two stones clacking

a spark-filled rain of outpoured longing,

so loud, so clear-cut and so scared.

 

The blackbird with a primal screech

itself into the spring gusts flings.

And this my heart so sorely wrings:

my springtime and my love are gone.