Ludwig van Beethoven.12 Songs of Various Nationalities / 12 песен разных народов, WoO 157, №11,12 (ирландская,венецианская)

Ludwig van Beethoven.12 Songs of Various Nationalities / 12 песен разных народов, WoO 157

11. The wandering minstrel / Странствующий менестрель (ирландская; с хором)
12. La gondoletta / Гондолетта (венецианская)

   William Smyth (1765 - 1849)

       The Wandering Minstrel  

 "I am bow'd down, with years,

And fast flow my tears,

But I wander, I mourn not,

Your pity to win:

'Tis not age, want, or care,

I could poverty bear

'Tis the shame of my heart

That is breaking within."

Thou are bow'd down with years,

And fast flow thy tears,

But why dost thou wander

No pity to win?

Were it age, were it care,

We could soothe, we could share,

But what is the shame

Thy sad bosom within?

"Oh, if thou should'st hear

From splendour's high sphere

The sorrow, the tale,

Which these notes may convey!

Think, think of past hours,

Thy dear native bowers,

And turn not, my love,

From thy father away."

'Tis from Erin so dear

The lay that we hear,

Then welcome tha minstrel

And welcome the lay:

But where are the bowers,

And what are the hours,

And where is the daughter

That wander'd away?

"What peace thou hast known,

Since from me thou hast flown!

And, Eveleen, think

But how wretched am I!

O let me but live

Thy fault to forgive,

Again let me love thee,

And bless thee, and die!"

O cease then thy song,

She has languished too long;

She hoped not thy smile

Of forgiveness to see:

She sunk at the word,

Thy voice when she heard

And she lives (if she lives)

But for virtue and thee.

Antonio Lamberti (1757 - 1832)

La Biondina in gondoleta

La Biondina in gondoleta

L'altra sera g'ho menà:

Dal piacer la povereta,

La s'ha in bota indormenzà.

La dormiva su sto brazzo,

Mi ogni tanto la svegiava,

Ma la barca che ninava

La tornava a indormenzar.

Gera in cielo mezza sconta

Fra le nuvole la luna,

Gera in calma la laguna,

Gera il vento bonazzà.

Una solo bavesela

Sventola va i so' caveli,

E faceva che dai veli

Sconto el ento fusse più.

Contemplando fisso fisso

Le fatezze del mio ben,

Quel viseto cussi slisso,

Quela boca e quel bel sen;

Me sentiva drento in peto

Una smania, un missiamento,

Una spezie de contento

Che no so come spiegar!

M'ho stufà po', finalmente,

De sto tanto so' dormir,

E g'ho fato da insolente,

No m'ho avuto da pentir;

Perchè, oh Dio, che bele cosse

Che g'ho dito, e che g'ho fato!

No, mai più tanto beato

Ai mii zorni no son stà.