A walesi bárdok

Arany János eredeti verse, és magyar, illetve brit műfordítók munkájának összehasonlítása.

© Gyöngyösi József

Arany János

Zollman Péter



Gyulai József

Ozsváth Zsuzsanna & Frederick Turner

Watson Kirkconnell

Neville Masterman

Bernard Adams

Edward király, angol király
Léptet fakó lován:
Hadd látom, úgymond, mennyit ér
A velszi tartomány.

King Edward scales the hills of Wales 
Upon his stallion.
"Hear my decree! I want to see 
My new dominion.

Paces King Edward of England
on his royal grey:
“Let us see”, says he, “the Wales Province,
how much it can pay.”


King Edward sits his palfrey grey,
Looks on his conquests' pales:
Let's see, says he, what worth to me
Is this domain of Wales.

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed,
"For I will see if Wales" said he,
"Accepts my rule indeed."

Edward the King, the English King, 
Rode on a dapple grey charger
‘I wish to know the worth’, said he, 
‘of my Welsh lands over the border.

Edward the king, the English king,
Forward spurred his grey.
Fain would I see the land of Wales,
Tell me its worth, I pray.

Van-e ott folyó és földje jó?
Legelőin fű kövér?
Használt-e a megöntözés:
A pártos honfivér?

"Show me the yield of every field, 
The grain, the grass, the wood!
Is all the land now moist and rich 
With red rebellious blood?

“Are there rivers and fertile soil?
grass thick on pasture heights?
Did the rebels’ blood any good?
Made it more fertile and right?”

What rivers flow, what harvests grow,
What meads for grazing good?
Is it well fed and watered
With rebel patriot blood?

"Are stream and mountain fair to see?
Are meadow grasses good?
Do corn-lands bear a crop more rare
Since wash'd with rebel's blood?"

Is the grass rich for sheep and ox,
Are the soil and rivers good? 
And are my provinces watered well 
By rebel patriots’ blood?

Has it rich pasture, rivers, woods,
Arable land besides?
All well watered with their blood
That 'gainst me dared to rise?

S a nép, az istenadta nép,
Ha oly boldog-e rajt'
Mint akarom, s mint a barom,
Melyet igába hajt?

"And are the Welsh, God's gift, the Welsh, 
A peaceful, happy folk?
I want them pleased, just like the beast 
They harness in the yoke.":

“Is the folk content and glad,
that God-given good folk,
as I’d like him to be,
like their cattle in yoke?”


Churls of this land, given by the hand
Of God into my care,
The folk, how do they love the yoke
They make their cattle bear?

"And are the wretched people there,
Whose insolence I broke,
As happy as the oxen are
Beneath the driver's yoke?"

And what of the people, the wretched people 
Do they seem a contented folk?
Are they as docile, since I subdued them, 
As their oxen in their yoke?’

And what of the Welsh, that wretched breed?
Are they as content
As I would wish, and as the ox
That 'neath the yoke is pent?

Felség! valóban koronád 
Legszebb gyémántja Velsz:
Földet, folyót, legelni jót,
Hegy-völgyet benne lelsz.

"Sire, this jewel in your crown, 
Your Wales, is fair and good: 
Rich is the yield of every field 
The grassland and the wood.

“Yes, Sire, Wales is really
precious diamond on your crown,
where good soil, rivers
hills and valleys are all around.


No diamond fairer, gracious King,
Stands in your crown than Wales:
Land, river, grazing, all are there,
Mountains and fertile vales.

"In truth this Wales, Sire, is a gem,
The fairest in thy crown:
The stream and field rich harvest yield,
And fair are dale and down."

‘Your Majesty Wales is the fairest jewel 
You have in all your crown,
River and field and valley and hill 
Are the best you may come upon.

Zounds, my liege, the finest jewel
In thy crown is Wales.
With plough and pasture, woods and streams,
Abound its hills and vales,

S a nép, az istenadta nép
Oly boldog rajta, Sire!
Kunyhói mind hallgatva, mint
Megannyi puszta sir.

"And, Sire, the Welsh, God's gift, the Welsh, 
So pleased they all behave!
Dark every hut, fearfully shut 
And silent as the grave."

Paces King Edward of England
on his royal grey:
Silent province, where he went
and muteness all the way.


The folk indeed enjoy the yoke
God set upon them, Sire!
Their huts are dumb, as is the tomb
Upon the graveyard's mire.

"And all the wretched people there
Are calm as man could crave;
Their hovels stand throughout the land
As silent as the grave."

And as for the people, the wretched people, 
They live so happily, Sir,
Like so many graves their hamlets stand 
And none there even stir.’

While the Welsh, that wretched breed,
Not a murmur raise.
Silent are their hovels all
As neglected graves.

Edward király, angol király
Léptet fakó lován:
Körötte csend amerre ment,
És néma tartomány.

King Edward scales the hills of Wales 
Upon his stallion.
And where he rides dead silence hides 
In his dominion.

It’s called Montgomery, the castle,
for the overnight,
It was count Montgomery himself,
entertaining king and knights.


And Edward walks his horse so pale
Amid his conquests bare:
All that remains are dumb domains
And silence everywhere.

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed;
A silence deep his subjects keep
And Wales is mute indeed.

Edward the King, the English King, 
Rode on a dapple grey charger, 
Around him silence which way he want 
In his Welsh lands over the border.

Edward the king, the English king,
Onward spurred his grey.
Silence reigned where'er he went
And no man said him nay.

Montgomery a vár neve,
Hol aznap este szállt;
Montgomery, a vár ura,
Vendégli a királyt.

He calls at high Montgomery 
To banquet and to rest;
It falls on Lord Montgomery 
To entertain the guest

It’s called Montgomery, the castle,
for the overnight,
It was count Montgomery himself,
entertaining king and knights.


Montgomery's that castle's name
Where the King lodged that night;
Montgomery, the castle's lord
Feasts him with all delight.

The castle named Montgomery
Ends that day's journeying;
The castle's lord, Montgomery,
Must entertain the king.

Montgomery the castle’s name, 
Where he that night remained, 
The castle’s lord, Montgomery, 
His monarch entertained.

Montgomery the castle was,
Montgomery its lord,
Where one fateful evening
The king found bed and board.

Vadat és halat, s mi jó falat
Szem-szájnak ingere,
Sürgő csoport, száz szolga hord,
Hogy nézni is tereh;

With fish, the meat, and fruit so sweet, 
To tease the tongue, the eyes,
A splendid spread for a king to be fed 
A lordly enterprise.

Games and fish and delicacies
appealing to mouth and eye,
hundreds hustling servants around
to watch is just a try.


Fish, flesh and fowl, and all things well
Fit for the flesh's gust,
A hundred servants, what a rout
To task the eyes' small lust;

Then game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
A hundred hurrying servants bear
To please the appetite.

There was fish and flesh and whatever else 
To sight and taste seemed good,
A rowdy throng, a hundred strong, 
Bore in the heavy load.

Game and fish and every dish
That eye and tongue delight
Were served him by a hundred men;
It was a wondrous sight.

S mind, amiket e szép sziget
Ételt-italt terem;
S mind, ami bor pezsegve forr
Túl messzi tengeren.

The waiters file with the best this Isle 
Can grow in drink and food,
And serve the fine Bordeaux and Rhine 
In gracious plentitude.

All, what this fertile land
can bring as foods,
and all the wine from overseas
are here with all the goods.


And all that this fair isle might grow
To feed the belly's glee
And all the wines of foreign vines
Conveyed across the sea.

With all of worth the isle brings forth
In dainty drink and food,
And all the wines of foreign vines
Beyond the distant flood.

All kinds were there, that isle could bear 
Of meat and drink, with these
was bubbling wine that sparkling shone, 
Carried from distant seas.

All manner of meat and drink there was
That this fine isle can bear;
Many a wine from overseas
Foamed and sparkled there.

Ti urak, ti urak! hát senkisem
Koccint értem pohárt?
Ti urak, ti urak!... ti velsz ebek!
Ne éljen Eduárd?

"Now drink my health, you gentle sirs, 
And you, my noble host! You Sirs... 
Welsh Sirs... you filthy curs,
I want the loyal toast!

“Hey, Squires! I need someone,
to say a toast with my drink!
Hey, Squires, you Welsh hounds,
don’t you welcome the King?”


Gentles, gentles! is there not one
That clinks his glass to me?
Gentles, gentles!... you dogs of Wales!
May Edward's health not be?

"Ye lords, ye lords, will none consent
His glass with mine to ring?
What! Each one fails, ye dogs of Wales,
to toast the English king?"

‘Ye Lords! ye lords! will no one here 
His wine glass with me clink?
Ye lords! ye lords! ye rude Welsh curs, 
Will none the King’s health drink?

My lords and gentles! Will none of you
Raise his cup to me?
My lords and gentles ... Dogs of Wales,
Own you no fealty?

Vadat és halat, s mi az ég alatt
Szem-szájnak kellemes,
Azt látok én: de ördög itt
Belül minden nemes.

"The fish, the meat you served to eat 
Was fine and ably done.
But deep inside it's hate you hide: 
You loathe me, every one!

“I see here games, fish and delicacies
appealing to mouth and eyes,
But are all deep in their soul
devils all the knights?”


Fish, flesh and fowl, all under sky
Pleasing and sweet I see;
But yet methinks the devil slinks
In these lords' courtesy.

"Though game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
Your hand supplies, your mood defies
My person with a sight.

There is fish and flesh and whatever else 
To sight and taste seem best,
- That I can see, but the devil I know 
Dwells in each noble’s breast.

Meat and fish and every dish
Delightful to the sense
I here perceive, but in yourselves
A devilish pretence.

Ti urak, ti urak, hitvány ebek!
Ne éljen Eduárd?
Hol van, ki zengje tetteim -
Elő egy velszi bárd!

"Well, then, you sirs, you filthy curs, 
Who will now toast your king?
I want a bard to praise my deeds, 
A bard of Wales to sing!"

“You, Squires, disgraceful hounds!
Should not live long Edward?
Where’s a man, who recites my deeds,
where’s a Welshian bard?”


Gentles, gentles! you wretched dogs!
Who'll sing King Edward's tales?
Where is the guest who'll toast my geste -
-Bring forth the bard of Wales!

"Ye rascal lords, ye dogs of Wales,
Will none for Edward cheer?
To serve my needs and chant my deeds
Then let a bard appear!"

Ye lords! ye lords! ye vile Welsh curs, 
Come greet your Edward;
Where is the man to sing my deeds 
A Welshman and a bard?’

My lords and gentles! Treacherous curs,
Will you not drink to me?
Where is a bard to praise my deeds
And sing my victory?

Egymásra néz a sok vitéz,
A vendég velsz urak;
Orcáikon, mint félelem,
Sápadt el a harag.

They look askance with a furtive glance, 
The noblemen of Wales;
Their cheeks turn white in deadly fright, 
As crimson anger pales.

The guests, the nobles of Wales
look on each other and gaze,
the horror like rage turns pale
on their startled face.


Each in his neighbor's face now looks,
The many knights of Wales;
There upon every Welsh guest's face
A fearlike anger pales.

The nobles gaze in fierce amaze,
Their cheeks grow deadly pale;
Not fear but rage their looks engage,
They blench but do not quail.

Each night upon the other looked 
Of the guests assembled there; 
Upon their cheeks a furious rage 
Paled to a ghastly fear.

Pale of cheek the noble Welsh
Looked around; in dread
And in fury met their eyes;
Not a word was said,

Szó bennszakad, hang fennakad,
Lehellet megszegik. -
Ajtó megől fehér galamb,
Ősz bárd emelkedik.

Deep silence falls upon the halls, 
And lo, before their eyes
They see an old man, white as snow, 
An ancient bard to rise:

No words, no sound,
no respiration heard,
when from behind, a grey Welsh bard
says a relieving word.

Words torn within, voice caught within,
Breath breaks and is drawn hard;
But now, above, a lone white dove,
Rises an old grey bard.

All voices cease in soundless peace,
All breathe in silent pain;
Then at the door a harper hoar
Comes in with grave disdain:

And strangled breath from lips like death 
Was all that could be heard;
When, like a white defenceless dove 
Arose an ancient bard.

Conversation ceased forthwith,
Not a breath was heard.
White of head, from near the door
Arose an ancient bard.

Itt van, király, ki tetteidet
Elzengi, mond az agg;
S fegyver csörög, haló hörög
Amint húrjába csap.

"I shall recite your glorious deeds 
Just as you bid me, Sire."
And death rattles in grim battles 
As he touches the lyre.

“Arms clatter, dying men rattle,
sun sets in bloody seas,
beasts of the night gather to smell:
King, here are your deeds.


Here is, O king, one who will sing
Your deeds, says the old man;
The clash of battle, the death-rattle
Cry from the the harpstring's pain.

"Lo, here I stand, at thy command,
To chant thy deeds, O king!" 
And weapons clash and hauberks crash
Responsive to his string.

‘Here there is one to tell thy deeds,’ 
Chanted the ancient seer;
‘The clash of battle, the hoarse death rattle, 
The plucked strings made them hear.

'Here, O King, is one will sing
Thy deeds that so inspire.'
Weapons clashed, the dying gasped,
As he swept the lyre.

"Fegyver csörög, haló hörög,
A nap vértóba száll,
Vérszagra gyűl az éji vad:
Te tetted ezt, király!

"Grim death rattles, the brave battles, 
And blood bestains the sun,
Your deeds reek high, up to the sky: 
You are the guilty one!

“Here is, King, a man”, says the aged,
“who’ll your deeds recite.”
Arms clatter, dying men rattle,
when he hits the harp.


"With clash of battle, with death-rattle,
Sun sets in its pool of blood,
The carrion-beast smells out the feast
Where you, King, spread the food!

"Harsh weapons clash and hauberks crash,
And sunset sees us bleed,
The crow and wolf our dead engulf
This, Edward, is thy deed!

The clash of battle, the hoarse death rattle, 
On blood the sun setting;
The stench that drew night - prowling beasts. 
You did all this, O King!

Weapons clash, the dying gasp,
The sun sinks in lakes of gore.
Before the beasts of night a feast
Hast thou spread, my lord.

Levágva népünk ezrei,
Halomba, mint kereszt,
Hogy sirva tallóz aki él:
Király, te tetted ezt!"

"Our dead are plenty as the corn 
When harvest is begun,
And as we reap and glean, we weep: 
You did this, guilty one!"


Slaughtered our folk lies
in pile, like shocks of wheat,
crying are those who search for lives:
King, here are your deeds!”

"Our heaped-up dead, a cross of red,
The thousands that you slew:
The simplest churl that works the soil
Weeps at the scathe you do!"

"A thousand lie beneath the sky,
They rot beneath the sun,
And we who live shall not forgive
This deed thy hand hath done!"

Ten thousand of our people slain, 
The rest are gathering
The corpses heaped like harvest stocks – 
You did all this, O King!’

Piled like sheaves at harvest-time
Lie thousands put to the sword,
And they that live weep as they glean.
This is thy work, my lord.'

Máglyára! el! igen kemény -
Parancsol Eduárd -
Ha! lágyabb ének kell nekünk;
S belép egy ifju bárd.

"Off to the stake!" the king commands, 
"This was churlishly hard.
Sing us, you there, a softer air, 
You, young and courtly bard!"

“Take him to stake! The song is rough!”
Cruelly orders Edward.
“We need a milder song today!”
And enters a younger bard.

The stake! Away! and no delay -
Edward commands the guard -
Ha! Here, a softer song, we'll hear,
Up steps now a young bard.

"Now let him perish! I must have"
(The monarch's voice is hard)
"Your softest songs, and not your wrongs!" 
In steps a boyish bard:

‘Off to the stake! this song’s too harsh’. 
Ordered King Edward.
‘Come, let us have a gentler tune’ 
Forth stepped a young Welsh bard.

Out! To the stake! The king's command.
That was exceeding hard.
A softer song is what we need.
Arose a youthful bard.

"Ah! lágyan kél az esti szél
Milford-öböl felé;
Szüzek siralma, özvegyek
Panasza nyög belé.

"A breeze so soft, does sweetly waft 
Where Milford Haven lies,
With wailing woes of doomed widows 
And mournful maidens' cries.

“Soft evening breeze
raises from Milford Bay,
lament of virgins is mixed in it
and widows’ complaint.


"Ah! softly plays the evening breeze
That blows on Milford Haven;
The maiden's keen, the widow's pain
Sigh in that wind of heaven.

"The breeze is soft at eve, that oft
From Milford Haven moans;
It whispers maidens' stifled cries,
It breathes of widows' groans."

‘Soft breezes sigh in the evening sky, 
O’er Milford Haven blown;
Maids’ sobbing tears and widows’ prayers 
Within those breezes moan.’

'O, softly blows the evening breeze
O'er Milford, off the sea.
In it moan the grief of widows,
Maidens' misery.

Ne szülj rabot, te szűz! anya
Ne szoptass csecsemőt!..."
S int a király. S elérte még
A máglyára menőt.

"Maiden, don't bear a slave! Mother, 
Your babe must not be nursed!" ... 
A royal nod. He reached the stake 
Together with the first.

Don’t give birth to slaves, virgin,
you, mother, don’t let them suck!”
And he arrived in time the stake
to catch up the first at the royal buck.


Virgin, do not give birth to slaves!
Mother, do not give suck!
The King waves him away. He joins
The other at the stake.

"Ye maidens bear no captive babes!
Ye mothers rear them not!"
The fierce king nods. The lad is seiz'd
And hurried from the spot.

‘Don’t bear a race of slaves ye maids! 
Mothers give such no more!’
The King spoke and the boy caught up 
The old man sent before.

Bear ye no children to be slaves,
Ye mothers, do not nurse ...'
Him to the stake the king dismissed
As brusquely as the first..

De vakmerőn s hivatlanúl
Előáll harmadik;
Kobzán a dal magára vall,
Ez ige hallatik:

But boldly and without a call 
A third one takes the floor; 
Without salute he strikes the lute, 
His song begins to soar:

But here comes a brave
and uncalled a third,
new songs on his lute
and with hurting words.

A third, unbid and unafraid
Yet comes before the King;
His harp speaks then as men speak men,
This Spell begins to sing:

Unbidden then, among the men,
There comes a dauntless third.
With speech of fire he tunes his lyre,
And bitter is his word:

But though unasked, yet recklessly 
Advanced, unmoved, a third
His lyre’s fierce song, like the Welsh bard strong, 
And his word must be heard.

But recklessly, unbidden too,
A third rose in his stead.
The theme itself sang from the harp
And this is what it said:

"Elhullt csatában a derék -
No halld meg Eduárd:
Neved ki diccsel ejtené,
Nem él oly velszi bárd.

"Our brave were killed, just as you willed, 
Or languish in our gaols:
To hail your name or sing your fame 
You find no bard in Wales!

“All the best died in battle
don’t you hear, Edward?
You shan’t find one, who prais’s
your name, not a one Welsh bard.


"The good men all in battle fell -
Hear, Edward, what this tells:
Seek one who'd blaze your name with praise:
Lives not such bard of Wales.

"Our bravest died to slake thy pride.
Proud Edward hear my lays! 
No Welsh bards live who e'er will give
Thy name a song of praise."

‘Our bravest fell on the battle field, 
Listen O Edward -
To sing the praises of your name 
There is not one Welsh bard!’

'Brave men have perished in the fight-
Mark thou my words, O King -
No bard of Wales will praise thy name,
None stoop to such a thing

Emléke sír a lanton még -
No halld meg Eduárd:
Átok fejedre minden dal,
Melyet zeng velszi bárd."

"He may gone,' but his songs live on - 
The toast is `King beware!'
You bear the curse - and even worse - 
Of Welsh bards everywhere."

Their names still sound on the lute,
Listen, you Edward:
curse on your head are all the songs
sung by a Welsh bard.”

His memory wrings the harpstrings still -
-Hear, Edward, what this tells:
Curse on your head is every song
Sung by a bard of Wales."

"Our harps with dead men's memories weep
Welsh bards to thee will sing
One changeless verse our blackest curse
To blast thy soul, O king!"

‘One memory sobs within my lyre, 
Listen O Edward -
A curse on your brow every song you hear 
From a Welshman and a bard!’

The harp preserves their memory -
Mark thou my words, O King -
A curse on thy head is every song
The bards of Wales shall sing.'

Meglátom én! - S parancsot ád
Király rettenetest:
Máglyára, ki ellenszegűl,
Minden velsz énekest!

"I'll see to that!" thunders the King, 
"You spiteful Welsh peasants!
The stake will toast your every bard 
Who spurns my ordinance!"

“That’s a lie!”, orders
the king, horribly to the guards:
to the stake, who’s against,
all the Welshian bards.


This let us see! The king commands
A deed at which hell pales:
Burn at the stake all those who take
The proud name, bard of Wales!

"No more! Enough!" cries out the king.
In rage his orders break:
"Seek through these vales all bards of Wales
And burn them at the stake!"

‘Enough of this! I orders give’
Answered the furious King,
‘To send to the stake all the bards of Wales 
Who thus against me sing!’

We shall see! The king commands,
And dreadful is his word,
That any bard who will not sing
His praise shall not be spared.

Szolgái szét száguldanak,
Ország-szerin, tova.
Montgomeryben így esett
A híres lakoma. -

His men went forth to search the North, 
The West, the South, the East,
And so befell, the truth to tell, 
In Wales the famous feast. -

Servants rush over the land
with the order to carry.
So it happened the famous
repast of count Montgomery.


His servants ride out far and wide,
Gallop with his decree:
Thus was proclaimed that day the famed
Feast of Montgomery -

His man ride forth to south and north,
They ride to west and east.
Thus ends in grim Montgomery
The celebrated feast.

His servants till their task was done 
Their searching never ceased; 
Thus grimly in Montgomery, 
Ended that famous feast.

His henchmen left to course the land
At the king's behest.
And so in high Montgomery
Took place the famous feast.

S Edward király, angol király
Vágtat fakó lován;
Körötte ég földszint az ég:
A velszi tartomány.

King Edward fled, headlong he sped 
Upon his stallion,
And in his wake a blazing stake: 
The Welsh dominion.

So, races King Edward of England
on his royal grey:
Stakes around him in Wales Province
and mourning all the day.

And Edward, King, rides a pale horse,
Gallops through hills and dales,
About him burns the earth's externes,
The fair domain of Wales.

Edward the king, the English king
Spurs on his tawny steed;
Across the skies red flames arise
As if Wales burned indeed.

Edward the King, the English King, 
Spurred his dapple grey charger. 
On the skies around, stakes burning stand 
In the Welsh lands over the border.

Edward the king, the English king,
Homeward spurred his grey.
All round the pyres lit up the sky
Of those that said him nay.

Ötszáz, bizony, dalolva ment
Lángsírba velszi bárd:
De egy se birta mondani
Hogy: éljen Eduárd. -

Five hundred went singing to die, 
Five hundred in the blaze,
But none would sing to cheer the king 
The loyal toast to raise.

Five hundred Welsh bards went
singing into fire grave,
but none could shout, not at once,
“Long live Edward, the brave!”


Five hundred, truly, singing went
Into the grave of flame:
But no Welsh bard would sing this word:
Long live King Edward's name!

In martyrship, with song on lip,
Five hundred Welsh bards died;
Not one was mov'd to say he lov'd
The tyrant in his pride.

Five hundred went to a flaming grave, 
And singing every bard.
Not one of them was found to cry 
‘Long live King Edward!’

'Tis said five hundred went to die,
Went singing to their doom;
None could bring themselves to sing
To English Edward's tune.

Ha, ha! mi zúg?... mi éji dal
London utcáin ez?
Felköttetem a lord-majort,
Ha bosszant bármi nesz!

"My chamberlain, what is the din 
In London's streets so late?
The Lord Mayor answers with his head 
If it does not abate!"

“Hey, what’s this sound, this song
on London’s street tonight?
I’ll order the Lord Mayor hung,
if disturbed by any kind!”

Holla! what clamor? ... what night song
In London's streets then rang?
If any voice disturb my rest,
The Lord Mayor shall hang!

" 'Ods blood! What songs this night resound
Upon our London streets?
The mayor should feel my irate heel
If aught that sound repeats!"

What murmur is this in the London streets? 
What night song can this be?
‘I will have London’s Lord Mayor hanged 
If any noise troubles me’.

What is that sound? In London's streets
Who is it sings so late?
The Lord Mayor's life is forfeit if
The king is kept awake.

Áll néma csend; légy szárnya bent,
Se künn, nem hallatik:
"Fejére szól, ki szót emel!
Király nem alhatik."

Gone is the din; without, within 
They all silently creep:
"Who breaks the spell, goes straight to hell! 
The King can't fall asleep."

“Silence, Sire, no rustle at all,
to rest went even the flies.”
“Who says a word”, the Lord Mayor says,
“immediately dies!”


Silence stands dumb; no whisper heard,
Not even a fly's wing;
"He risks his head whose word be said
That irks the sleepless King!

Each voice is hush'd; through silent lanes
To silent homes they creep.
"Now dies the hound that makes a sound;
The sick king cannot sleep."

Within, a fly’s wing must not move, 
Outside all silence keep.
‘The man who speaks will lose his head 
The monarch cannot sleep.’

Now silence deep: not one fly's wing
Within or without is stirred.
The king lies waking - risks his head
Who utters but a word!

Ha, ha! elő síp, dob, zene!
Harsogjon harsona:
Fülembe zúgja átkait
A velszi lakoma...

"Let drum and fife now come to life 
And let the trumpets roar,
To rise above that fatal curse 
That haunts me evermore!"

“Hey, bring flute, lute and all
trumpets, loud instruments,
I still hear those cursing songs
from Montgomery’s nest!”

Holla! bring music, pipe and drum,
Let trumpets blast their scales!
The curses sear within my ear
Of that damned feast of Wales ..."

"Ha! Bring me fife and drum and horn,
And let the trumpet blare!
In ceaseless hum their curses come…
I see their dead eyes glare…"

‘No! Bring me the music of pipe and drum, 
And the trumpet’s brazen roar,
For the curses I heard at the Welshman’s feast 
Ascend to my ears once more!’

'Let there be music! Fife and drum,
And let the trumpet bray!
The curses of that feast in Wales
Ring in my ears this day.'

De túl zenén, túl síp-dobon,
Riadó kürtön át:
Ötszáz énekli hangosan
A vértanúk dalát.

But over drums and piercing fifes, 
Beyond the soldiers' hails,
They swell the song, five hundred strong,
Those martyred bards of Wales.

But over songs, flutes and drums
and alarming drums dingdong,
Five hundred sings aloud
the martyrs’ glory song.

But rising over scream of pipe,
The blare of bugle, drum,
Five hundred strong sing out their song
Of blood and martyrdom. (*)

But high above all drum and fife
And all trumpets' shrill debate,
Five hundred martyr'd voices chant
Their hymn of deathless hate.

But above the music of pipe and drum 
And the bugles’ strong refrain, 
Loud cry those witnesses of blood, 
Five hundred Welsh bards slain. (*)

But o'er the sound of fife and drum
And brazen trumpet's clang
Five hundred voices raise the song
That the martyrs sang.