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Lo plaing comenz iradamen
D'un vers don hai lo cor dolen;
Ir' e dolor e marrimen
Ai, car vei abaissar Joven:
Malvestatz puej' e Jois dissen
Despois muric lo Peitavis.

Remazut son li prez e·ill lau
Qi solon issir de Peitau.
Ai! com lo plagno li Barrau.
Peza·m s'a longas sai estau.
Segner, lo baro q'ieu mentau
Metetz, si·us platz, em paradis!

Del comte de Peitieu mi plaing
Q'era de Proeza compaing;
Despos Pretz et Donars soffraing,
Peza·m s'a lonjas sai remaing.
Segner, d'efern lo faitz estraing,
Qe molt per fon genta sa fis.

Glorios Dieus, a vos me clam,
Car mi toletz aqels qu'ieu am;
Aissi com vos formetz Adam,
Lo defendetz del fel liam
Del foc d'efern, qe non l'aflam,
Q'aqest segles nos escharnis.

Aqest segle teing per enic
Qe·l paubre non aten ni·l ric.
Ai! com s'en van tuit mei amic,
E sai remanem tuit mendic.
Pero sai ben q'al ver afic
Seran li mal dels bos devis.

Gasco cortes, nominatiu,
Perdut avez lo segnoriu,
Fer vos deu esser et esqiu,
Don Jovenz se clama chaitiu,
Qar un non troba on s'aiziu,
Mas qan n'Anfos, q'a joi conquis.

Plagnen lo Norman e Franceis,
E deu lo be plagner lo reis
Cui el laisset la terr' e·l creis;
Pos aitan grans honors li creis,
Mal l'estara si non pareis
Chivauchan sobre Serrazis.

Aqil n'an joja, cui que pes,
De Limozi e d'Engolmes;
Si el visques ni Deu plagues,
El los agra dese conqes;
Estort en son car Dieus lo pres,
E·l dols n'es intratz en Aunis.

Lo plainz es de bona razo
Qe Cercamonz tramet n'Eblo.
Ai! com lo plaigno li Gasco,
Cil d'Espaign' e cil d'Arago.
Sant Jacme, membre·us del baro
Que denant vos jai pelegris.

I sadly begin the dirge
in a verse that makes my heart ache;
sadness, pain and astonishment
take me, for I see Youth debased:
Malice rises and Joy declines
since the Poitevin died.

Stalled are the worth and laudable deeds
that were wont to come from the Poitou.
Alas! how do the Barrois miss him!
It weighs heavily on me, if I have to live long.
Lord, put the baron I
mention, an you please, in Heaven!

I lament the count of Poitiers,
who was Prowess' partner;
since Worth and Bounty are no more,
it grieves me if I remain here long.
Lord, keep him from Hell,
for his end was a much noble one.

Glorious god, I protest to you,
for you take away those I love;
the same way you shaped Adam,
protect him from the evil ties
of the fire of Hell: let it burn him not,
for this world misleads us.

I consider this world hateful
for it doesn't pander to the poor nor to the rich.
Alas! How all my friends depart,
leaving us all miserable here.
But I know well that at doomsday
the good will be parted from the evil.

Kind, renowned Gascons,
you have lost your dominion,
which you must find hard and cruel:
Youth calls herself wretched because of it,
for she can't find shelter by anyone anymore,
except for Sir Anphos, who has conquered joy.

The Norman and French mourn him,
and one who should do so as well is the king
to whom he leaves his land and heir;
since his domain increases so much,
he'll be blamed if he doesn't show himself
riding against the Saracens.

Whoever is grieved, those from the Limousin
and the Angoumois are happy:
had he lived on (and had god abided),
he would have promptly conquered them;
they are delivered because god took him,
and mourning has entered Aunis.

The dirge that Cercamon sends
to Sir Eble is about a noble subject.
Alas, how do the Gascon mourn him,
together with those of Spain and Aragon!
Saint James, remember the baron
who lay before you as a pilgrim.