The Woodcock
Was there ever anything, half-dead condition,
so inimical to a merry lover
as long black grim winter shaking the trees,
4 coldest tryst in the snow?
His path between two towns is terrible,
cold lad, he is the father of snow.
There was never anyone who did not find it hard
8 (is it easy to hide tribulation?)
to wait in snow for [a girl dressed in] white fur,
this freezing snow, and ice at night.
It was easier to wait for her
12 in the woodland castle on a summer night
hearing how sweet the tune
of the grey cuckoo with its unassuming tones.
Being in the woods of May
16 (and that's how one would have it)
is very different to roaming, sleepless wandering,
under the eaves of my bright lady's house.
Should it happen the next day [= after the summer],
20 by some miracle, that I should get her,
though it's hardly likely, in a snug haybarn,
I'd be afraid that on a winter night
this lad wouldn't be able to satisfy the fair lass,
24 there'd soon be reproach about inadequacy.
We were having a nice conversation,
me and the gorgeous jewel, lasting regret.
The clumsy speckled thief
28 gave my lovely bright girl a shock and a fright,
useless spiky beak dripping with food,
the fierce grey woodcock.
Speckled dull-coloured creature,
32 it's one of the birds of winter.
What it did, it's no friend of my darling,
the filthy cloak on sticks,
was to rush out from under the bush
36 with a great commotion, battered wings,
and jump around until it reached
another dark bush. It was no help to me at all.
The fat churl's two wings
40 made such a racket on the frosty ground
that we were convinced, both lamenting bitterly,
we were so annoyed, that the noise was made by the Jealous One,
scurrying pathetically between house and woods,
44 wild rush of one in a speckled coat with a nose like a spike.
It would stab viciously at a dung heap,
like an auger always in filth and ice.
Its long cunning call is dreadful to hear
48 and silly by cow pats in field.
It can't make merry chatter up on the hillside,
nor do me any good at all,
nor songs, says the fine sweetheart,
52 through the treetops for a girl's sake,
but can only wield that thin vicious steel instrument,
a black spike that grazes dung.
That brindled bird with sombre wings,
56 scoundrel with its snare, may it get
without any warning, tawny wanderer,
a good hard arrow shot, the speckled alien.