Wednesday 31 October 2018

Anonymous 'Macaronic Song' from Sweden

Makaronisk Sång (1571-73)

Winter och frost thet kommer med ijs,
Et horror hyemalis;
Sommar och blomster thet kommer med pris,
Et decor estiualis.
The glædie sigh mott sommarsens tijder,
Iam vario decore,
Förvtan then ena migh görs oblidh,
Præ nimio dolore.

Nu är kommen then lystighe tid,
Quo flores floreantur,
Marken giörs grön och solen giörs blidh,
Et silue foliantur.
Thet glæder sigh bådhe foghell och diur,
Estatis in dulcore,
Ther til bådhe pighor och stålte jungfruer,
Earumque amore.

Jagh haffner fååt så lönligh en sotth,
Quem nolo promulgare;
Then fick jagh ij skoghen ij går,
Dum iui spaciari.
Eij är then mester ij werlden till,
Qui curam medicabit,
För vtan then ene om hon så will,
Hæc sola me sanabit.

Nu ähr kommen then lekia kan,
Et morbum suffocare;
Ther till haffner bådhe mackt och sin
Et me sanabit.
Förvtan then ene vill nu rådha migh bott,
Vaticinio prolato,
Tå bliffuer iagh vtaff sorgen löst,
Furore duplicato.

Min kärest hon bor på högt itt bergh,
Qui culmen habet litis;
Och till thet huus tå ligger en bro,
De gemmis margaritis.
Jag steg migh wp, iagh gick ther in,
Progrediens ad illam,
Hon togh mig så kärligh wthi sin fampn,
Pie palpabit maxillas.

Ij waren wellkommen, käre herre min,
Spes meæ sanitatis;
Ij skolen dricka thet klara win,
De cornibus auratis!
Hon lade migh vthi en silkes sengh,
Carbunculis opressum,
Ther soff jagh så söttelig på hennes arm,
Diei post regressum.

Macaronic Song

Winter and frost they come with ice,
Et horror hyemalis;
Summer and flowers they both entice,
Et decor estiualis.
They look forward to summertime,
Iam vario decore,
Without a loved one I do but pine,
Præ nimio dolore.

Now the joyful season is here,
Quo flores floreantur,
The field turns green the sun warm and clear,
Et silue foliantur.
Both bird and beast give joyful sign,
Estatis in dulcore,
As do young maids and ladies fine,
Earumque amore.

So secret a sickness has come my way,
Quem nolo promulgare;
In the forest I caught it yesterday,
Dum iui spaciari.
No physician exists in the world entire,
Qui curam medicabit,
Except for her, should she so desire,
Hæc sola me sanabit.

Now one has come who can cure this ill,
Et morbum suffocare;
For that she has both power and skill
Et me sanabit.
Were she to remedy this disease,
Vaticinio prolato,
From sorrow I would find release,
Furore duplicato.

My dearest lives on a hill so high,
Qui culmen habet litis;
And to that house a bridge runs nigh,
De gemmis margaritis.
I climbed and entered that high place,
Progrediens ad illam,
She took me so fondly in her embrace,
Pie palpabit maxillas.

You’re welcome here, dear lord of mine,
Spes meæ sanitatis;
You shall drink of the pure clear wine,
De cornibus auratis!
On a silken bed she laid me to rest,
Carbunculis opressum,
There I slept sweetly at her breast,
Diei post regressum.

Monday 29 October 2018

'Gamble man' - Swedish poem written down around 1600, but probably earlier

Lenngren: 'Notifikation'


Nej, ingen fins så vis och qvick,
Som icke något dumt begick:
Sjelf Sokrates sig tog en qvinna.
Och icke fins så dumt ett får,
Som man ej klokt en gång skall finna:
Min käre farbror dog i går.


No, no one is so wise and bright
Some foolish act his name won’t blight:
E’en Socrates took him a wife.
And no one can be quite so dim
Some prudent act’s not done by him:
Dear uncle has just left this life.

Saturday 27 October 2018

Lenngren: 'Den mödosamma världen" in English

The wearisome world

Our vicar I observed the other day
one morning, while as yet he lay
stretched out exhausted ’twixt two sheets.
His cheeks were rosy pink in hue,
his podgy arms well-marrowed too,
his massive belly hid from view
surged t’ward his chin’s full-larded pleats.
A table by his bed, where breakfast was laid out
stood ready for this man devout,
with butter and with chicken, such delicious food.
This did the reverend set about
and judged the sweet liqueur quite good.
After displaying zeal aright,
with swig on swig and bite on bite,
on his soft pillow did he sink back in despair
and cry out: “Mighty God, what is this life of clay?
A fight ’gainst vanity and sin’s foul snare.
Oh Lord, Thy strength grant me I pray
so wearisome a world to bear!”

Friday 26 October 2018

Anna Maria Lenngren. 'Gubben Didrik' in English translation

Gubben Didrik

Gamle Didrik var en man,
Klok, som få väl skola finnas,
Och en plägsed hade han,
Som är värd att minnas:
Just som den ville all verlden fick rusta –
Aldrig man fann honom klaga och pusta:
Sällan hans bröst klämde fram något »ack!»
Didrik bara teg och drack.

Didrik hade ock en fru,
Första året dråplig qvinna.
Skillnad sen på förr och nu
Didrik fick besinna:
Allt som matronan fick ister kring magen,
Snäste hon gubben och skärpade lagen,
Tillade honom mång lyten och lack –
Didrik bara teg och drack.

Didriks bröstarfvinge Jöns,
Virtuos på kam och giga,
Snattade sin grannes höns,
Älskade hans piga.
Gubben en gång smällde junkern på flinten.
Mor kom så till och försvarade pilten –
Didrik försigtigt sin rygg undanstack,
Kröp till vrån och teg och drack.

Didrik gubben, stackars mes,
Hade ock en enda dotter,
Som af bibel och katkes.
Gjorde papiljotter,
Frestade tången på sjette budordet,
Fick engång tvillingar hastigt vid bordet.
Gumman hon svor som en ryss och kossack –
Didrik bara teg och drack.

Didrik skuffad inom hus,
(Kan man det förtänka gubben!)
Tog sig jemt ett aftonrus
Klockan sex på klubben,
Hängde sin hatt på den vanliga spiken
Alltid ordentligt, gaf hin politiken;
Och när det hände slikt vådeligt snack,
Didrik bara teg och drack.

Didrik med sitt gråa hår
Och med ölet spildt på hakan
Ändtligt läggas uppå bår
Såg den ömma makan.
Didrik så nöjd följde liket i koret,
Myste och tyckte just om sig med floret,
Skyndade hem och spenderade rack,
Sjöng i glädjen, sjöng och drack.

Old Boy Didrik

Old Boy Didrik, wise was he,
More than others round him squalling,
Held his peace, a tactic we
Would do well recalling:
Though the world always was tossing and straining –
From him came never a moan or complaining:
Seldom an ‘ah!’ from his lips could be heard –
Didrik drank, said not a word.

Didrik also had a wife,
She was festive one whole season.
That soon went from Didrik’s life
For the age-old reason:
As his old lady grew stouter and fatter,
She put the screws on, said he was the matter,
Told him his failings, the wrongs he’d incurred –
Didrik drank, said not a word.

Dridrik’s son and heir, called Jens,
Comb and fiddle virtuoso,
Often filched the neighbour’s hens,
Maid played amoroso.
Didrik one day gave the upstart a bashing.
Mother defended the lad, her eyes flashing,
Didrik then hid like a shy, frightened bird –
Sat and drank, said not a word.

Poor old Didrik’s heart did quake
At his daughter, such a teaser,
From her bible she would make
Curlers when it pleased her.
The sixth commandment her tongs turned quite sable,
Gave birth to twins once while sitting at table.
Swore like a cossack so everyone heard –
Didrik drank, said not a word

Didrik, pushed around at home,
(Can one blame the man, not really!)
Every evening outward roamed
At his club drank freely,
On the same hook hung his hat as he entered,
Shunned talk of politics, shrewdly self-centred;
Never by dangerous topics was spurred –
Didrik drank, said not a word.

Didrik with his hair now greyed,
Through his beard the beer now seeping,
Saw at last on her bier laid
His fond wife now sleeping.
Didrik the funeral watched, but not glumly,
Found that his tight-fitting crape was quite comely,
Hurried back home, where punch flowed undeterred,
Sang and drank, his wife interred.

For a recording of the song, go to here: