Poezja

Early that Sunday I rose, had my repast for the day (twice)
had my repast for the day,
And to my yard I went
Oié tra la la la dira la dira
And to my yard I went
There among its bowers to stray.

A nightingale I heard. In the bush she sang an air.
Her sweet chant caused my heart to lie full lowly in its lair.

- O, young man, young man, tell me, Say, is your mind in pain?
Neither my mind, nor my soul! Neither of them is in pain!
But woe is me for my youth
Oié tra la la la dira la dira
But woe is me for my youth
And all my time spent in vain.

For youth is like a rose, best thing in this lesser world
Old age is sure to cause the fair rose soon to wilt.

Youth, akin to the rose, you'll never last for long!
Once your grace is disclosed, with the wind it is gone along!

When a proud bachelor I was, happy, lucky, free of care,
The money in my pocket, never would stay for long there.

But woe betide me when I made up my mind to wed!
My youth would not endure it, soon away from me it fled.
Farewell my youth that by pleasure-seeking was always led!

If like a wren I had wings, if I had wings like a wren,
I would chase after it, soon it would be back to my den.

- A nightingale if you were, that's a thing I can teach,
Never would you capture it, it's far and out of your reach!


(Translation of a Breton song titled "Farewell to youth")