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Castellana de Castilla,
tan bonita e tan fidalga,
mais a quen para ser fera
ca procedensia lle abasta.
Desíme, miña señora,
xa que os mostrás tan ingrata,
si o meu rendimento homilde
bascas de enoxo vos causa,
pois cando onda vós me achego
cuspís con ardentes ansias,
i ese mirar de pombiña
volvés en fosca mirada,
tornando en sombrisa noite
o día que en sol se baña.
En vano intento, señora,
saber por que me maltrata
dama dun alma tan nobre,
aunque soberba por fama,
pois n'é motivo a desprezo
sintirse tan ben amada,
que as mesmas pedras, señora,
dun bon querer se folgaran.
Din que na nobre Castilla
así ós gallegos se trata,
mais debe saber Castilla
que de tan grande se alaba,
que sempre a soberbia torpe
foi filla de almas bastardas;
e sendo vós tan sabida,
nunca de vó-lo pensara,
que de tan alto baixando
vos emporcases na lama;
nin que chamándovos nobre,
tanta nobreza enfouzaras
imitando ós que vaidosos
no que está débil se ensañan.
Pero máis val que enmudeza,
pois tes condición de ingrata;
que predicar en deserto
na miña terra n'é usanza.
Si fun curpabre en quereros
coma ningún vos amara,
por ser de terra gallega
e serdes vós castellana,
en paz, señora, vos deixo
ca vosa soberba gracia,
e voume á Galicia hermosa
donde en xuntanza me agardan
o que non tendes, señora,
i o que en Castilla n'achara:
campiños de lindas rosas,
fontiñas de frescas auguas,
sombra na beira dos ríos,
sol nas alegres montañas,
caras que nacen sorrindo
e que sorrindo vos aman,
e que inda mesmo morrendo
en sonrisiñas se bañan.
Alí, señora, contento
cantando o doce ala lala,
baixo a figueira frondosa,
en baixo da verde parra,
c'aquelas frescas meniñas
que mel dos seus labios manan,
cando en falar amoroso
meigo nos din en voz maina,
con tódalas de Castilla,
nobrísimas castellanas,
olvidareivos sin pena,
anque sos vós tan fidalga.
Que aló saben ser altivas,
pero non saben ser vanas,
i é fácil con doces tomas
olvidar tomas amargas.
Déchesmas vós, mi señora,
con desprezo envenenadas,
inda con fero máis fero
que pelica de laranxa;
mais teño por que me pase
aquel sarrapio que escalda,
teño unha dama nos Portos,
outra no Ribeiro de Avia;
si a dos Portos é bonita
a do Ribeiro lle gana.
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Castilian woman of Castile,
So pretty and so genteel,
But whose provenance suffices
To let her become a wild beast.
Tell me, my lady,
Since you act so ungrateful,
Whether my humble homage
Causes you bargeloads of irritation,
For when I draw near
You spit with ardent fury,
And that gaze of gentle dove
You switch to a glare,
Turning to sombre night
The sun-bathed day.
Madame, I endeavour in vain
To ascertain why mistreats me
Lady of such a noble soul,
Though famously haughty,
For there are no grounds for spite
In feeling yourself dearly cherished,
Even the very stones, Madame,
Would relish a true love.
They say that Galicians are treated
Likewise in noble Castile.
Withal Castile, which boasts so much
Of her greatness, must know
That obtuse pride was always
The daughter of bastard souls;
And you being so learned,
I'd never think it of you,
That descending from so high
You should wallow in the mud;
Nor that, esteeming youself noble,
You should smear so much nobility
Imitating those who conceited pounce
Upon the frail one with cruelty.
But it behooves me to stay my tongue,
For you bear stamp of ungrateful;
And it is no practice of my land
To preach in the desert.
If for cherishing you like no other
Would love you I trespassed, because
I hail from Galician territory
And you are Castilian,
In peace, Madame, I leave you
With your proud grace,
And I remove to splendid Galicia
Where for me altogether wait
What you have not, Madame,
And what I'd never discover in Castile:
Fair fields of pretty roses,
Dear fountains of cool water,
Shade by the riversides,
Sun on the gleeful mountains,
Faces that are born smiling
And that smiling love you,
And that even upon their very dying
Suffuse over with serene smiles.
Over there, Madame,
Singing glad the sweet alalá,
Underneath the leafy fig tree,
Underneath the verdant vine,
With those fresh lasses
Who ooze honey from their lips,
When they say to us in amorous chat
And with soft voice, "wizard,"
I shall forget you without sorrow
(Though you be so genteel)
Along with all the women of Castile,
Castilian women most noble.
For over there they can act proud,
But forgo being vainglorious,
And taking sweet sips it is easy
To forget bitter ones.
You gave them to me, my lady,
Poisoned with contempt,
Even with fury more ferocious
Than a skin of orange's;
But I have what assuages
That acid taste that smarts,
I have a lady in Portos,
Another one in Ribeiro de Avia;
If the one from Portos is pretty
The one from Ribeiro tops her.
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