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I
Vinte unha crara noite,
noitiña de San Xoán,
poñendo as frescas herbas
na fonte a serenar.
E tan bonita estabas
cal rosa no rosal
que de orballiño fresco
toda cuberta está.
Por eso, namorado,
con manso suspirar
os meus amantes brazos
boteiche polo van,
e ti con dulces ollos
e máis dulce falar,
meiguiña, me emboucastes
en prácido solás.
As estrelliñas todas
que aló no espazo están,
sorrindo nos miraban
con soave craridá.
E foron, ¡ai!, testigos
daquel teu suspirar
que ó meu correspondía
con amoriño igual.
Pero dempois con outros
máis majos e galáns
(mais non que máis te queiran,
que haber, non haberá),
tamén, tamén, meniña,
soupeches praticar
á sombra dos salgueiros,
cabo do romeiral.
Por eso eu che cantaba
en triste soledá,
cando, ¡ai de min!, te vía
por riba da veiga llana,
con eles parolar:
"Coida, miña meniña,
das práticas que dás,
que donde moitos cospen,
lama fan."
II
¡Que triste ora te vexo!...
¡Que triste, nena, estás!...
Os teus frescos colores,
¿donde, meniña, van?
O teu mirar sereno,
o teu doce cantar,
¿donde, meniña, donde,
coitada, toparás?
Xa non te vin, meniña,
na noite de San Xoán,
poñendo as frescas herbas
na fonte a serenar.
Xa non te vin fresquiña
cal rosa no rosal,
que muchadiña estabas
de tanto saloucar.
Ora, de dor ferida,
buscando a honriña vas,
honriña que perdeches,
mais ¿quen cha volverá?
Eu ben, miña meniña,
ben cha quixera dar,
que aquel que ben te quixo
doise de verte mal.
Mais anque dir, eu diga,
que limpa, nena, estás,
respóndenme sorrindo
por se de min bulrar
«Ben sabes, Farruquiño,
Farruco do Pombal,
que donde moitos cospen,
lama fan».
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I
I saw you on a cloudless night,
At twilight Saint John's Eve,
Setting the fresh herbs to steep
In the table bowl for the night.
And you looked as pretty
As a rose in the rose bush
Drenched
In fresh dew.
That is why, enamoured,
With soft sighs
I threw my loving arms
Around your waist;
And you, charming enchantress,
With sweet eyes and sweeter talk
Beguiled me
In placid solace.
All the twinkling stars
That in space above reside
Looked at us smiling
With soft-light shine.
And they were witnesses ah!
Of those sighs of yours
Which reciprocated mine
In equal, gentle love.
Yet afterward with others
More handsome and gallant than I
(Though none who love you more,
For no one ever ever shall)
As well, as well, lass,
You were wont to chatter
Under the shade of the willow trees,
Beyond the field of rosemaries.
That is why I used to sing to you
In sullen solitude
When wretched me! I saw you
Chatting with them
Across the flat lowland:
"Be careful, my lass,
About the conversations you have,
For where many spit,
Loam turns to muck."
II
How sad I see you now!...
How sad, girl, you are!...
Your glowing colours, lass,
Whither did they part?
Your serene gaze,
Your sweet singing, lass,
Where, o ill-starred one,
Where will you find?
No longer did I see you, lass,
On the night of Saint John's Eve
Setting the fresh herbs to steep
In the table bowl for the night.
No longer did I see you sparkling fresh
Like a rose in the rose hedge,
For sadly withered you were
From weeping so much.
Now you go about scarred by pain
In search of your good name,
Reputation you surrendered,
But who will render it?
O how, how I wish, my lass,
I could give it back to you,
For he who loved you true
Suffers to see you ailing.
But however much I say and say
What a wholesome girl you are,
They reply to me smiling
To make of me fun,
"Well you know, Frankie,
Frank of Pombal,
That where many spit,
Loam turns to muck."
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