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.