Macaronic Song: 'Winter och frost thet kommer med ijs'

 

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.

 

https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=XkQRAQAAMAAJ&hl=en_GB&pg=GBS.PA104

 

 

https://www.britannica.com/art/macaronic