Translation of the song lyrics Conte Medieval - Ebri Knight

Conte Medieval (original)

Temps era temps hi havia
En uns poblet medieval
Un baró de mala jeia
Que a tothom volia mal
Amb carrossa d’or i plata
Passejava tot superb
Pel seu poble que moria
D’esquifit i famolenc
Xics i grans, mig morts de gana
Li sortien al seu pas
Demanant-li amb ulls plorosos
Que tingués d’ells pietat
Però ell somreia
I burleta, els cridava amb veu de tro:
A pencar, males abelles
Necessito molt més or
Els diumenges a la tarda
Organitzava un gran joc:
«Vilatans, vinga, a la festa
A la festa de la mort
Vull setze joves per banda
Amb espases i garrots
A fer d’escacs a la plaça
I que guanyin els més forts»
Xics i grans mig morts de pena
Li sortien al seu pas
Demanant-li amb ulls plorosos
Que tingués d’ells pietat
Però ell somreia
I burleta els cridava amb veu de tro:
«A jugar, vatua l’olla
Que a mi m’agrada aquest joc!»
Un joglar passà pel poble
Avançada la tardor
Que amb senzilla veu cantava
I així deia la cançó:
«Ai del poble, ai de la vila
Que té un lladre per senyor
Si vol pau que sigui justa
L’haurà de guanyar amb suor»
Xics i grans tots l’escoltaven
Li donaven la raó
Els naixia l’esperança
Van anar a trobar el baró
Però ell somreia i burleta
Els cridava amb veu de tro:
«Us faré tallar una orella
Si escolteu el trobador»
Els vilatans es negaren
A pagar més els tributs
A palau armats anaren
I parlaren sense embuts:
«No et volem per baró nostre
No et volem, vés-te'n d’aquí
Que si et quedes, ai de tu!
A la forca has de morir.»
Xics i grans tots a la una
Li cantaven la cançó:
«Ai, del poble, ai de la vila
Que té un lladre per senyor»
I ell callava i de ràbia
Se li corsecava el cor
Mentre el poble repetia
La cançó del trobador:
«Ai, del poble, ai de la vila
Que té un lladre per senyor
Si vol pau que sigui justa
L’haurà de guanyar amb suor»

(translation)

Time was time there
In a medieval village
A bad baron
That he wanted everyone wrong
With gold and silver float
Everything was superb
For his dying people
Disgusting and hungry
Young and old, half starving
They came out to him
Asking him with teary eyes
Have mercy on them
But he was smiling
And mockingly, he called to them in a thunderous voice:
To penny, bad bees
I need a lot more gold
Sunday afternoons
He organized a great game:
“Villagers, come to the party
At the feast of death
I want sixteen young people per side
With swords and clubs
Chess in the square
And let the strongest win »
Young and old half-dead
They came out to him
Asking him with teary eyes
Have mercy on them
But he was smiling
And mockingly he called to them in a thunderous voice:
"It simply came to our notice then
I love this game! ”
A minstrel passed through the village
Late autumn
That he sang with a simple voice
And so the song said:
“Woe to the people, woe to the village
That he has a thief by lord
If you want peace be fair
You have to win it with sweat. "
Everyone, young and old, listened to him
They were right
Hope was born for them
They went to find the baron
But he was smiling and mocking
He called to them in a thunderous voice:
“I’ll make you cut off an ear
If you listen to the troubadour »
The villagers refused
To pay more taxes
They went to the palace armed
And they spoke bluntly:
"We don't want you for our baron
We don't want you, get out of here
What if you stay, woe to you!
You have to die by hanging. ”
Young and old all at one
They sang the song to him:
“Alas, from the village, alas from the village
Who has a thief for sir »
And he was silent and angry
Her heart was pounding
While the people repeated
The troubadour's song:
“Alas, from the village, alas from the village
That he has a thief by lord
If you want peace be fair
You have to win it with sweat. "