How steep the red-stained cliffside,
Oh, cursed is me! The French in me!
’Twould be better if I had died!
And ne’er soiled the village place,
Oh, Roussillon! Poor Roussillon!
My sins art thy one disgrace!
I shalt fling myself to death,
Down jagged crag! Oh, scarlet crag!
And screech a perishing breath,
No more to taint the saintly!
Dolorous life! Most wicked life!
Toward the cliff I must slip faintly—
Hark, what is that humming sound?
And suddenly I am bound!
Prithee, from whence comes the notes?
To haunt my soul? To plague my soul?
Yet oh, how pleasantly it floats!
It nearer draws to find me,
A crumhorn tune! A buoyant tune!
Oh, song, I wish to catch thee!
I’ll fly to heaven in thy mirth,
Thy happy strain! Thy healing strain!
The single joy of my birth!
Lo, the crumhorn doth appear,
A troubadour! Strange troubadour!
He looks so vibrant and queer!
His hat conceals silent eyes,
But oh, his lips! His rounded lips!
They make the sweet sound to rise!
Just as quick, the man is gone,
The music died! Has quickly died!
Swift, my death card must be drawn!
Yet, if I could live today,
And follow now! Yes, follow now!
The troubadour’s song so gay.
I cannot bear this tumble,
There isn’t time! Not any time!
Roussillon, you may crumble!
I must chase what I adore,
To live again! To dance again!
With the song and troubadour!
by Hannah Linder