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Lo vers comens quan vei del fau
Ses foilla lo cim e·l branquill,
C'om d'auzel ni raina non au
Chan ni grondill,
Ni fara jusqu'al temps soau
Qu·el nais brondill.

E segon trobar naturau
Port la peir' e l'esc' e'l fozill,
Mas menut trobador bergau
Mi tornon mon chant en badau
En fant gratill.

Pretz es vengutz d'amont aval
E casegutz en l'escobill,
Puois avers fai Roma venau,
Ben cuig que cill
Non jauziran, qui·n son colpau
D'aquest perill.

Avoleza porta la clau
E geta Proez' en issill!
Greu parejaran mais igau
Paire ni fill!
Que non aug dir, fors en Peitau,
C'om s'en atill.

Li plus d'aquest segle carnau
Ant tornat joven a nuill,
Qu'ieu non trob, de que molt m'es mau,
Qui maestrill
Cortesia ab cor leiau,
Que noi·s ranquill.

Passat ant lo saut vergondau
Ab semblan d'usatge captill!
Tot cant que donant fant sensau,
Plen de grondill,
E non prezon blasme ni lau
Un gran de mill.

Cel prophetizet ben e mau
Que ditz c'om iri' en becill,
Seigner sers e sers seignorau,
E si fant ill,
Que·i ant fait li buzat d'Anjau,
Cal desmerill.

Si amars a amic corau,
Miga nonca m'en meravill
S'il se fai semblar bestiau
Al departill,
Greu veiretz ja joc comunau
Al pelacill.

Marcabrus ditz que noil l'en cau,
Qui quer ben lo vers e·l foill
Que no·i pot hom trobar a frau
Mot de roill!
Intrar pot hom de lonc jornau
En breu doill.

I start the piece when I see the beech
without leaves on the top and on the branches,
when no man hears the bird and the frog
singing or croaking,
nor will, until the gentle season
when the twig sprouts.

Now, according to the natural art,
I carry the flint, tinder and tinderbox,
but lesser troubadours, like hornets,
turn my song into a joke
and have a good laugh.

Virtue has descended from on high to low,
fallen into the filth;
since money makes Rome greedy,
I rather think that those
who are guilty of this danger
won't enjoy [them].

Cowardice carries the key
and casts Prowess into exile.
Hardly you'll find father
and son to be equals;
for I don't hear, except in Poitou,
that on cultivates [prowess].

Most, in this world of lust,
have turned to despise youth,
for I cannot find, and that grieves me much,
one who masters
courtesy with a loyal heart
and who doesn't totter.

They have taken the leap of shame
with the appearance of a sovereign habit.
On all they give, they demand royalties;
full of complaints,
they don't care a fig
for blame or praise.

He prophesied right and wrong
who said we will end up in reversal,
the lord a serf and the serf a lord:
they already do that:
the buzzards of Anjou have done so.
What a fall!

If lovemaking has a loyal friend,
it is no wonder at all to me
if it seems to be of bestial appearance
when it departs,
for you'll hardly see fairness
in the game of love.

Marcabru says he doesn't care
if someone scans his piece and searches it,
because one cannot find a false
word to tarnish it:
may a man of great size be able to enter
[his?] small hole!