Sottes chansons: Some English translations by Samuel N. Rosenberg

Sotte chanson 2

No monkey song or half-peeled pear
Can make me start to sing again,
But that lady of mine who’s never known soap
Calls for a song about playful buffoons.
My legs wobble and won’t stand up straight
When she stretches her neck for a kiss;
My heart jumps around with such joy
That I just about lose my life
Out of love for my lady.

She’s all great fun, like a madcap manic!
She often gifts me with a sigh so deep
It would be worth a good belch and a half
Were I free to make the exchange.
I wish God would grant her rewards
For all the great things she sends on my way,
And even had I no tongue for the talking,
I’d tell her in a voice loud and clear:
“O lady of mine, thank you kindly!”

Lady most honored and white as hot pitch,
I mustn’t lie as I praise you.
That face of yours is dark brown and all wrinkled;
He who sees it at dawn will that night likely die.
Which brings this to mind:
I’d be badly behaved and ungrateful
Were I lax in my effort to serve you,
Since you’ve greatly enriched me
By making me one impoverished wretch.

Twenty years and five months before you were born,
Your beauty struck me with such force in the gut
That my belly’s still hurting and swollen.
Even in dreams you leave no trace in my mind,
So much do I crave you;
In fact, were I sick with a fever,
My lady, I’d pass it to you as a present—
Oh, gladly, and with a kind heart!
Is that not a true lover’s gift?

I’ll give you, too, you rag-covered lady,
Jewels I don’t care to keep anymore—
Half-roasted buds and an eyeball well boiled—
All of it good for a throat-clearing cough.
When I see you come close to my person,
I could just about renounce God Himself,
Because I’d much rather see the approach
Of an honest-to-goodness wolf of the wild.
Thanks be to Love!

Sotte chanson 3

My thanks to Love for this charm of a present,
Which makes me love, even not wanting,
A lady with no more than one tooth in her maw!
It’s a good reason to make an attempt, for Love’s sake,
To compose a chanson that is thoroughly shameful.
No man who sees her can deny her appeal.
What a charmer she is, with that wide-open maw,
And lucky the man who can eat a piece of the pie!

Alas, how could I not find delight in her service?
Her beauty often brings me something of value,
And when she laughs, she seems out of her mind.
I pray God that no man ever fall under her spell
Unless he’s prepared to become one-eyed or scabby,
Or start growing even more hair than a wolf.
A lady like that should not be surrounded by suitors:
The more a man loves her, the worse is his luck.

I’ll never be sorry to love her,
So strong’s my desire… God forbid I take her to bed!
Her name is so lovely—she’s my lady Hersent.
My heart is all hers to protect.
When I ask for her help, I look terribly wretched.
She says: “I have a friend much dearer than you:
I mean our shepherd, whose hair is all gone,
But who two days ago wrung me out dry.”

No, I’m not lying, and have no wish to laugh
When I find her barking at me as she does.
It’s very upsetting to see how mean she can be;
It hurts me enough to make me shred all my drawers!
I’m too lazy to make love with that woman,
And for good reason: I will not be a cuckold!
I believe she was born at least a century ago.
Surely, to see her, you’d call her out of her mind.

Madam, I beg you, I love you so much
I feel no pain, thanks to you, no sorrow or wound.
Love for you has seared me with such merciless fire
The wool of my blanket has burned to a crisp.
But how daring of me to aspire so high!…
He who sees you at daybreak is still gagging at night,
Since your face is so furrowed with wrinkles;
You’d best keep it hidden with powder and pigment.

Sotte chanson 4

He really has to sing, any man overcome
By good Love as I am, unreasonably.
I love the woman who hawks “Old Shoes, Old Boots!”
And she loves me, which makes me so frightened
I practically lose the leather pad in my heel.
When I see her, it’s not much joy I can feel:
She’s blind in one eye and has skin white as coal.

When I see her, love makes my hair stand up straight;
Not a thing I can do! There’s no man, wise as could be,
Who, looking at her from head to her toes,
Wouldn’t have some thoughts to confess;
She’s so lovely to look at—no doubt about that—
That no man who sees her comes away un-deranged;
Her flesh is so soft it pricks barely more than a thistle.

I swear I’m devoted to her without reservation;
I love her a lot and at just the right time;
I’d agree to be jailed overseas and in irons
And pass her love off as worthless to me.
Mercy, good lady! Your beautiful face
Is so painful to me that even drowning to death,
I would describe you with nothing but praise.

Even if I were of such lordly renown
As once was the courtly Audigier,
Who with a fine sword slew a mere butterfly,
I wouldn’t be worthy, as well you should know,
To love a lady with no satisfaction to offer.
When she laughs, not even a wolf that’s gone mad
Could look so ugly as she, so it seems.

Lady, when I see your face frowning at me,
Your poisonous look is like an elixir of love:
Everyone tells me I’m more than well lodged!
If I had all of Solomon’s wisdom,
I would recognize here a fine gift from Love;
But loving you has bewildered me so
That I truly don’t know how to regain my reason.

Sotte chanson 5

I have to sing until Judgment Day
Be it here or wherever,
Because that was my lady’s command
The very day she made me love her
With a sincere and joyful heart—
That dear sterling lady of mine,
Whose beauty is measured
In so many wrinkles that no man could
Spot all, however hard he might peer.

She was a Jew for thirty-two years,
But for love of me became then a Christian;
I thank Love for the change because it’s from him
That she gained the desire to reject her old faith;
Indeed, no one could speak
Of so great a beauty in the world
And no one, in one breath,
Could succeed, much though he sputtered,
In describing her looks without making an error.

I’m sure there’s no lady, between here and Friesland,
More practiced in pampering a man
Than I find her to be: when I’m aroused and worked up
By that wonderful ache that urges me on,
I then start to tell her
My sorrowful story;
She throws down her spindle
And has me, out of love, pick it up.
Should we not call that a true gift of love?

If I’ve devoted all my thought and attention
To praising the charms of my lady,
It’s because it’s all true—not a lie!—
And the prize of the contest should surely be mine.
Were it even costing my life,
I’ll go on speaking my mind:
Endlessly kissing her little chapped lips,
Smelling them, licking them—
What a ripping good time!

Worthy lady, red as a cherry,
Sage enough as you sleep to avoid little farts,
Dirty-faced and dark-skinned under your shift,
You never deign to speak treacherous words.
When good fortune kindly grants me
The long-wished-for day
When you acknowledge my glance,
Your great beauty strikes me like lightning
And nothing can stop me from sneezing.

I mean to present this song
To Mehalet the Gap-toothed,
Who forced apart and pulled away
My heart and all my guts
The moment I first caught sight of her.

Sotte chanson 6

When I hear a winter announcement
Of the newest spring dance,
It’s no doubt because Love wants me
To write some new songs for my lady.
Well, I’ve composed I-know-not how many,
But she claims all the same to’ve been poorly paid.
I implore good Love, then, to lend me support
In coming out with a song of a sort
That will make her take leave of her senses;
Only thus will my effort not be a loss.

My lady so loves to frolic
That she’s always dallying through the fields;
And so I’ve built a little arbor there,
Covered in white sheets,
And I’ve given her new gloves
And a fine two-colored jacket.
I have made her such a beauty
That no man alive—no lie is this—
Can see her lovely self
And not wish to have a go at her.

She was nastily treated,
Not two years ago,
By a certain envious whore
Who in front of four passers-by
Told her she stank and claimed that, besides,
Her ears had been cut like a convict’s.
True, that wench was voicing no lie,
But she would have done well to keep quiet,
For telling the truth can lead to a whole crop
Of problems—which happens often enough.

Alas, you poor unhappy dear!
I’d have done all I could to avenge you,
But you sought your revenge by yourself—
Which was a truly great pity,
Since the lady went on to show courage,
Once she had emptied her sack,
By not running off right away;
Rather, she left herself open to an answer:
You, with punches and jabs,
Showed you could be just as polite.

Ah, lady stuffed with good sense,
Reasonable and oh, so congenial,
Well do you know how to empty your sack
When it’s full;
Madam, I am truly delighted,
Since my mouth is all full
And I’ve libertine living to thank.
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .

Sotte chanson 7

When I see rotten pork for sale
On the shaky table at the butcher’s stall,
My belly fills with so much gas of Love
That I jump with joy like an acrobat;
That’s why I write motets and songs for fun,
But the more I twist and turn to get inspired,
The less I compose that can sing as I wish.
All thanks to Love for such agile success!

I love and desire in my heart and my bowels
A lady who is named Isabel;
She is so bright and so thoughtful
That when I gaze at her beautiful body
I’m excited enough to go out of my mind,
And the pleasure I get from all that I see
Frightens me so that I can do nothing but faint
And splash around in the mud just like a pig.

Once I am done with all that excitement,
I’m off to buy hats, one for her, one for me.
When I’m back, clever lady she is,
She lets me see one of her white-as-snow legs;
My flesh bristles and stands up on end,
Gorged with an urge to get up on her back;
So pressing is it I can’t help shaking all over,
Just like an oven that’s new to the job.

Next Lent, with all my heart I’ll have loved her
(No joke, I assure you!) for thirty-two years.
The place where we met was a market
In the fair city of Meaux,
But I wasn’t successful in hinting enough
Or singing enough jolly good songs
For her to say right away I could touch
Whatever it was that was under her skirts.

All-knowing lady, quieter than a doll,
In view of how truly I am loyal to you
And of what dirty thoughts my heart harbors
About your fair body, please, just to spite me,
Cut your hair with a knife that’s unhoned,
So when I have to stretch out beside you,
The hair will leave my face with such scratches
That some people will say I’m a leper.

All-knowing lady, more cuddly than a lamb,
You who so love to spin by night and by day,
If you agree to give heed to my song,
I’ll gladly give you a good piece of my…spindle.

Sotte chanson 8

When I hear the quail
Sing in her two-ditch shelter
As the male in charge
Has her somersault before him,
That’s when I want to write a song
About the power of Love,
Which so fills my paunch
That my belly won’t find relief
Till my buttocks are bled.

So I beg you, my lovely dear,
To be so kind as to lend me
Your dear medicine box for a while
To put a suction cup to my buttocks,
And I’ll gladly reward you
With myself, you dear, noble beauty;
So, if I die, the blame
Will be yours, for if you so generously
Help me, you won’t get any thanks.

From you, priceless lady,
It turns out I can recover
So great a measure of worth
That I should be roasted alive
For ever daring to love
A lady of such noble esteem,
For when he considers your looks,
A lover’s heart is turned away from all love
By the beauty that’s wiped clean from your face.

If I’ve devoted all my attention
To praise for my lady,
It mustn’t be taken to be
Some silly excess, for no lover could
Stammer or any way recount
The honor of his lady;
And I, with my remembrance
Of the fair beauty by whom I’m desired
Turn the fine features I note into actual sin.

Lady to whom I have granted forever
Fully half of my heart,
You are the flower of courtliness
And good sense … oh, what a laugh!
When good Love gives me a chance
To watch your behavior,
Your dear glance is so very encouraging
That, coming as it does from your heart,
It spoils my whole day!

Sotte chanson 9

When in winter I see those rascals battling with spears
’Gainst the wind and see it strike back at their flanks,
I want to rejoice with a song
Because of the beauty who’s made a fool out of me,
Whom I’ve loved and have served since before I was born;
And in spite of myself I’ve gained through that service
So many odd riches that now I’m a miserable pauper.

I am forced into all sorts of labors
In the service of Love, since that’s how I’m granted
So many good things that I’m almost reduced
To go begging for bread, so enamored am I.
Ah! rightful lady, do come to my aid
With one simple glance from your beautiful eyes,
[A glance] that rejoices neither me nor another!

You have heard tell of a juniper tree such
That no man in the world can behold it
Without losing his urge for the touch of a woman.
Madam, your body is much like that tree,
For no man, though normally aroused by a woman,
Will not, seeing you, turn suddenly cold
And lose for all time his attraction to women.

I have to gird up my loins for the dance,
Because a lady has so besotted my heart
Who is worthy and bright and as clever at games
As a cheat hitting seven with three throws of the dice.
But woe! what can I do if she refuses to love me?
I can’t imagine! That damnable thing they called Love
Has brought me confusion and pain!

Lady whom I love as much as could be,
I pray that you care to grant me this gift:
That you please stake a claim for my body,
For I don’t doubt you can win it in battle.
Truth is, I so long to see the day come
When, madam, you’re pleased to accept me
That fear makes me turn raging mad.

Sotte chanson 10

Love makes me sing for almost no money;
It’s really a bother, whatever credit I’m granted,
And often it drives me into a spot that’s so tight
I have no more silver or other exchange.
And yet, if I ever found credit,
I’d always pay back with courteous thanks;
And if, in a tavern, ill luck comes my way,
So I don’t have the funds to cover my tab,
The man at the bar shouldn’t insist on a pledge.
That is the state that Love’s brought me to!

I love and desire (and have no way to explain it)
Mistress Eolent de l’Avesnoie,
(And she loves me in turn) with so much disquiet
That I pray to our Lord she never see me again;
Yet I pray Love, lowly wretch that I am,
To let me so well serve [the good lady]
That I can soon savor
The sweet jewel that lets her water
The ground—provided I can do so unseen,
Since I’d never, but never, make an obvious try.

In fact, the good girl made a promise to me,
That, if I gave her a pair of cow leather shoes,
I could do with her body whatever I’d like.
Good Love, though, so rules what I do
That, if I were down on my knees in front of [the girl],
Taking my pleasure with all due discretion,
…………….
…………….
…………….
[The dotted lines mark where a leaf is missing from the medieval manuscript.]

Sotte chanson 16

When I see cheese weeping in the drainer
And lettuce in vinegar spreading its leaves,
So much do I yearn to serve true Love
That I have no warm clothes for the winter;
I beg her, then, who insists I wear what I’m wearing
To be so kind as to lighten my pain
And make sure, too, that I have no shoes for my feet.

You see, I have no better way of wasting my time
Than by putting on shoes to serve my fair lady,
Since I’m greatly afraid she’d be very upset
To see my feet blackened by Cordovan leather.
But I fear even more that Love, just for fun,
Will overwhelm me tonight when I get into bed
And leave me nothing to eat in the morning.

And if it turns out that loyal Love—
Which I serve as I like—cares not to help me,
I’ll crush a clove of garlic in the mortar
And eat it with such ravenous pleasure
That she for whom I would never dare cough
Will be so pleased by the smell of my breath
That she’ll think me a truly generous host.

My lady should be wonderfully pleased
If she could get into bed with me,
But true Love keeps me so far away
That I don’t even dare to approach our church,
And I’m so disappointed not to get where I’m going
That I run to the tavern hoping to see
If a stiff drink can slake the thirst in my throat.

Truth is, the lady I love so wonderfully well
Has sworn—if only God can cure her of the pain
Which, for me, is a joy—
That, unless I’m too drunk to stand on my legs,
She’ll be glad to see me drop dead;
I need, then, to make every effort to swill
Enough beer to fall on my face at the tavern.

Song, go kneel at the feet of my lady;
Tell her I love the tavern more than the church.
Will that allow me into her bed? Hope so!

Sotte chanson 29 (Jehans Baillehaus)

Weep, lovers! True love, I can tell you, is dead,
And here in this land you’ll not see her again.
Last night, in the darkness, we heard a noise at the door;
It was Love’s soul, which a demon was carting away;
The devil, though, granted me a great last-minute wish:
He laid the soul down; then she laid a triplet of eggs—
And it’s thanks to those eggs that the world will be saved.
That’s what I read in a basket of bread,
Where I’d written it down yestermorning.

It is only right that everyone trust me
Until the full meaning of the news
That I bring you is revealed.
Love is now dead, as you have just heard,
But know you’ll soon have her again;
That is what Virgil foretold on taking his leave,
When he took back the soul that he had laid down—
And he turned it for me from Romance into Latin,
Just as it is written on parchment.

Given an Englishman with badly bent back
And effectively fitted out with a tail.
If you look for a man of that sort,
Ask him to brood on three eggs;
Then, if he does, you’ll see them all hatch
In a week; but if it takes longer,
There’s no reason to think the outcome’s a loss:
Love has to be hatched in a basket,
Pouch at the neck, like a pilgrim.

And if it happens that Fortune the strong
Caused Love to be born on the right side
For the sake of the Englishman’s pleasure,
I can tell you, my lords, what you should do:
You should all go up together to Love,
And each one should administer two vigorous slaps.
Then you can watch Love’s prowess play out
In the house of Rasset or Audefrin,
In front of a good fire, with a frothy good drink.

That is a thought that brings me great comfort,
And I’ll tell you why, if you wish:
I have never, by any spasm of pain,
Had my arms and my sides so forcefully gripped
As when Love of a sudden takes hold —true!—
At any time, night or day.
But, as you see, I am naked and bare…
And Love might soon say: “Now off you go!
If you laugh me away, you’ve no family left!”

For a long while I stayed silent and sad,
But good Love, holding me close,
Makes me sing for a high-ranking lady
Whom I fell for last year at Saint Quentin.