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Queridiña dos meus ollos,
saberás como estou vivo
nesta vila donde adoito
dende que chegín de Xinzo.
Saberás como a Dios gracias
i ó escapulario bendito
non afogamos no mare
como coidaba Xacinto
que é tan valente, abofellas,
como os alentos dun pito.
Saberás como dempois
me puñeron moi vestido
con roupa azul e amarela,
cal andan tódolos quintos,
e logo todos xuntados,
inda máis de vintecinco,
nos paseamos polas calles,
que era mesmo un adimiro
de tan majos como ibamos,
e tan brancos e tan limpos.
¡Si me viras, queridiña,
cal outras que eu sei me viron!
Cada ollada me botaban
xa de través, xa de fito...
I eran meniñas graciosas
con moita salsa no pico,
mais ningunha deste peito
poido arrincarme un sospiro,
que o teu retrato alí estaba
rabuñando paseniño,
que anque de onda ti partín,
prendiña que tanto estimo,
non vin soio, miña xoia,
que ti viñeche conmigo.
¡Si souperas canto peno,
si souperas cal me afrixo
cando me acordo nas noites
daqueles teus cantariños!...
Ora en ti penso disperto,
ora en ti penso durmindo,
e sempre en ti estou pensando
coma si foses feitizo.
Seique meigallo me deche
na festa do San Martiño,
amasado cos teus dedos
nunha bola de pan trigo.
Mais non o sinto por eso,
que anque me deras martirio
por vir de ti, queridiña,
como un año recibírao.
Nada me distrai, Rosiña,
da pena que por ti sinto.
De día como de noite
este meu corazonciño
contigo decote fala,
porque eu falar ben o sinto,
un falar tan amoroso
que me estremezo de oílo.
¡Ai!, que estrañeza me causa
e soidás e martirio,
pois así cal el che fala,
quixera falar contigo,
cal outros tempos dichosos
dos nosos amores finos.
¡Cantas veces nos xuramos,
cando lavabas no río
o pé dun alto salgueiro,
antre risas e sospiros,
xa nunca máis separarnos,
xa nunca máis desunirnos!
Mais aqueles xuramentos,
tal como rosas de espiño,
lixeiriños se espallaron
a un sopro dos ventos fríos.
Ora co mar de por medio
¡adios, amantes cariños!
Nin ti me ves, nin te vexo
aló na beira do río,
naquelas crariñas noites
de folga polos domingos.
As amoriñas maduran
nas silveiras dos camiños,
nacen as froriñas brancas
por antre as canas do millo,
o río pasa que pasa,
cantan nas ponlas os xílgaros,
todo está verde e frondoso,
todo está fresco e frorido;
solo nós, Rosa, faltamos
naqueles verdes campiños.
Rosiña, dáme un consolo
para este dolor que eu sinto.
¡Ai, que os recordos me matan!
¡Ai, que acabarán conmigo!
Di si inda me queres moito,
mándamo a decir pretiño;
dime si garda-lo pano
que che din por San Benito,
que o merquei na quinta feira
por doce cartos e pico.
Dime tamén si deprendes
pola cartillas de Cristus
a ler como me ofreceches
para ler os meus escritos,
que en sabendo algunhas letras
dempois irás traducindo.
Eu xa lle perdín o medo
a escribiduras e libros,
pois fago uns palotes netos
de que eu mesmo me adimiro,
tan grandes como fungueiros
e máis gordos, si non minto.
Adios, espresiós che mando
polo burro de Camilo,
que non sei cal che dirá
estas cousas que lle esprico;
mais sabe, miña Rosiña,
rosiña de doce olido,
que si ti xa ler souperas
os palotes que eu escribo,
escribírache unha carta
nas alas dun paxariño.
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Darling of my eyes:
You will learn that I am alive
In this town where I reside
Since I arrived from Xinzo.
You will learn how thanks to God
And to the blessed scapular
We did not drown at sea
As supposed Xacinto
Who is as bold, my word,
As the huffs and puffs of a chick.
You will learn how afterward
They dressed me quite smartly
In blue and yellow raiment,
Such as all the conscripts wear,
And then everyone together,
More than twenty-five even,
We paraded through the streets,
And it was truly a wonder
How handsome we looked,
And so white and so clean.
If you had seen me, darling,
Like I know other girls saw me!
Hard and long they stared at me
Now sidelong, now straight on...
And they were bubbly girls
With much sauce on their beak,
But not one could wrest
A sigh from my breast,
For your portrait was there
Scratching leisurely,
For although I departed from you,
Precious holdfast I so esteem,
I did not travel alone, my gem,
For you came along with me.
If you knew how much I grieve,
If you knew how I torment myself
When I bring to mind at night
Those sweet songs of yours!...
Now awake I think about you,
Now asleep I think about you,
And I'm always dwelling on you
As if you were a magic spell.
Perhaps you handed me a spell
At the feast of San Martiño,
Kneaded with your fingers
In a round loaf of wheat bread.
But I don't feel sorry about that,
For even if you slew me
I would endure it like a lamb,
It coming from you, darling.
Nothing distracts me, dear Rose,
From the sorrow I feel over you.
By day as by night
This my poor heart
Chats with you continually,
For well I sense it talk,
In so amorous an address
That I quiver when I hear it.
Aye! What yearning it triggers
And melancholy and affliction,
For just the way it talks to you,
I should like to chat with you,
As we did in other joyful epochs
Of our fine loves.
How often we vowed to one another,
Amid bouts of laughter and sighs,
When you laundered in the river
At the foot of a tall white willow,
To nevermore part company,
To nevermore break up!
But those vows,
Like the roses of a hawthorn tree,
Scattered briskly briskly
Shaken by a gust of the cold winds.
Now with the sea between us
Good-bye loving intimacies!
Neither you see me nor I see you
Over there beside the river,
In those placid clear nights
Of leisure on Sundays.
The sweet blackberries ripen
On the brambles of country lanes,
Dainty white flowers blossom
Among the stalks of corn,
The river flows past and flows past,
The goldfinches sing on the branches,
All is dense and green,
All is fresh and flowery;
We alone, Rose, are missing
On those lovely green fields.
Dear Rose, give me some relief
For this pain I feel.
Alas, the memories kill me!
Alas, they will do me in!
Say if you are still fond of me,
Send me word quickly;
Tell me if you still have the shawl
I gave you around San Benito,
I bought it at the fifth fair
For twelve notes and some change.
Tell me also if you are learning
To read with the leaflets of Cristus
As you promised me to do
In order to read my writings,
Once you know some letters
Then you will start translating.
I already lost my dread
Of scribbles and books,
For I draw real sticks
That I myself marvel at,
As big as wooden poles
And fatter if I am not mistaken.
Good-bye. I send you greetings
By way of that ass-Camilo,
I ignore how he will tell you
These things I explain to him;
But know, my dear Rose,
Favourite rose of sweet fragrance,
That if you could already read
The big sticks I draw,
I would write you a letter
On the wings of a small bird.
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