Ensemble Perceval - Ja nuns hons prisl | Текст песни

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• Ensemble Perceval
• Ja nuns hons prisl

Ja nus hons pris ne dira sa raison
Adroitement, se dolantement non;
Mais par effort puet il faire chançon.
Mout ai amis, mais povre sont li don;
Honte i avront se por ma reançon
— Sui ça deus yvers pris.

II
Ce sevent bien mi home et mi baron–
Ynglois, Normant, Poitevin et Gascon–
Que je n'ai nul si povre compaignon
Que je lessaisse por avoir en prison;
Je nou di mie por nule retraçon,
—Mais encor sui [je] pris.

III
Or sai je bien de voir certeinnement
Que morz ne pris n'a ami ne parent,
Quant on me faut por or ne por argent.
Mout m'est de moi, mes plus m'est de ma gent,
Qu'aprés ma mort avront reprochement
—Se longuement sui pris.

IV
N'est pas mervoille se j'ai le cuer dolant,
Quant mes sires met ma terre en torment.
S'il li membrast de nostre soirement
Quo nos feïsmes andui communement,
Je sai de voir que ja trop longuement
—Ne seroie ça pris.

V
Ce sevent bien Angevin et Torain–
Cil bacheler qui or sont riche et sain–
Qu'encombrez sui loing d'aus en autre main.
Forment m'amoient, mais or ne m'ainment grain.
De beles armes sont ore vuit li plain,
—Por ce que je sui pris

VI
Mes compaignons que j'amoie et que j'ain–
Ces de Cahen et ces de Percherain–
Di lor, chançon, qu'il ne sunt pas certain,
C'onques vers aus ne oi faus cuer ne vain;
S'il me guerroient, il feront que vilain
—Tant con je serai pris.

VII
Contesse suer, vostre pris soverain
Vos saut et gart cil a cui je m'en clain
—Et por cui je sui pris.

VIII
Je ne di mie a cele de Chartain,
—La mere Loës.

I
No prisoner can tell his honest thought
Unless he speaks as one who suffers wrong;
But for his comfort as he may make a song.
My friends are many, but their gifts are naught.
Shame will be theirs, if, for my ransom, here
—I lie another year.

II
They know this well, my barons and my men,
Normandy, England, Gascony, Poitou,
That I had never follower so low
Whom I would leave in prison to my gain.
I say it not for a reproach to them,
—But prisoner I am!

III
The ancient proverb now I know for sure;
Death and a prison know nor kind nor tie,
Since for mere lack of gold they let me lie.
Much for myself I grieve; for them still more.
After my death they will have grievous wrong
—If I am a prisoner long.

IV
What marvel that my heart is sad and sore
When my own lord torments my helpless lands!
Well do I know that, if he held his hands,
Remembering the common oath we swore,
I should not here imprisoned with my song,
—Remain a prisoner long.

V
They know this well who now are rich and strong
Young gentlemen of Anjou and Touraine,
That far from them, on hostile bonds I strain.
They loved me much, but have not loved me long.
Their plans will see no more fair lists arrayed
—While I lie here betrayed.

VI
Companions whom I love, and still do love,
Geoffroi du Perche and Ansel de Caieux,
Tell them, my song, that they are friends untrue.
Never to them did I false-hearted prove;
But they do villainy if they war on me,
—While I lie here, unfree.

VII
Countess sister! Your sovereign fame
May he preserve whose help I claim,
—Victim for whom am I!

VIII
I say not this of Chartres' dame,
—Mother of Louis!

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