The Magpie's Counsel
As I pined for a beautiful girl
in a grove singing of love's charm,
one day, a snatch of sprightly song,
4 when the sky was sweet in early April,
and the nightingale was on fresh green branches,
and the fair blackbird on battlement of leaves,
poet of the woods, she dwells in a house of trees,
8 and a thrush on green treetop
before the rain singing clearly
radiant notes on a green coverlet,
and the skylark, tranquil voice,
12 dear grey-hooded bird with sober voice,
carrying a cywydd
with great effort high into the sky
(hesitant prince, from the open ground
16 he climbs up backwards):
myself, poet of a tall slender maid,
I was most joyful in a fresh grove,
and my worn heart bore remembrance,
20 and my soul was fresh within me,
so lovely was it to see trees
wearing new raiment, lively energy,
and shoots of vines and wheat
24 after shining rain and dew,
and green leaves at the head of the valley,
and thorn bushes fresh and white-tipped.
By heaven, there was also
28 the magpie, craftiest bird in the world,
building, handy device,
in the middle of a tangled thicket,
[a nest] of leaves and chalky soil, splendid portal,
32 assisted by her mate.
The haughty sharp-beaked magpie
croaked on the thorn bush, woeful complaint:
'That's a great tumult, bitter-false song,
36 old man, you're making to yourself.
By Mary (wise word), you'd be better off
beside the fire, you grey old man,
than here amidst dew and rain
40 in the fresh grove in cold rain.'
'You, magpie, your beak is black
(you fierce hellish bird),
be quiet, leave me in peace,
44 for God's sake, here at my appointment.
It is great love for a pure good girl
that causes me this tumult here.'
'You are wasting your time, pursuit of vice,
48 undignified half-witted grey old man,
a foolish sign of the work of love,
jabbering about a beautiful girl.'
'You too have long work
52 and even greater labour (false travail):
you cover a nest like a gorse bush
(it will be a thick basket of dry broken twigs).
You've got variegated black plumage, absolutely lovely
56 (a wilderness of a face and a crow's head).
You are motley, you've got a fair colour
(you've got an awful dwelling, your voice is very hoarse).
And you would learn every fine far-off language,
60 mottled-black wing.
You, magpie, your head is black
help me, although you are so garrulous,
and give the best counsel
64 that you know for my great sickness.'
'Sickly poet, the fair girl does not love you,
there is but one counsel for you:
very solemn song, become a hermit -
68 oh foolish man! - and love no more.'
By my faith, God be my witness,
if I ever see a magpie's nest,
that because of this she will be left
72 neither egg, indeed, nor chick.