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I
¿Que ten o mozo?
¡Ai!, ¿que terá?
Ponme agora unha cara de inverno,
despois na fiada, ¡sonrisas de tal!
Quer que baile con el no muíño,
i aló pola vila, nin fala quisais...
¿Que ten o mozo?
Pois... ¿que tera?
Unhas veces, canciño de cego,
por onde eu andare seguíndome vai,
nin hai sitio donde eu non atope
un Bras con cirolas i os zocos na man.
¡Ai, que mociño!
¡Ai, que rapaz!
Noutro instante, ¡mirá que fachenda!...
atruxos que asombran ó mesmo lugar.
¡¡¡Brrr!!!, parece que pasa soberbo,
mandando nos homes su real maxestá.
Mociño, ¿es tolo?
¡Ai!, ¿si o serás?
Eu non podo entender, meu amore,
que airiños te levan, que airiños te tran,
nin tampouco cal xeito te cadra,
tratándose, mozo, do teu namorar.
¡Ai!, ¡Dios me libre
de ti, bon Bras!
Que no meu entender te acomparo,
ó mesiño de marzo marzal:
Pola mañán, cariña de rosas;
pola tarde, cara de can.
¡Mala xuntanza
facemos! ¡¡Ai!!
II
¿Que di a meiguiña,
que di a traidora?
Corazón que enloitado te crubes
cos negros desprezos que a falsa che dona,
¿por que vives sofrindo por ela?,
¿por que, namorado, de pena saloucas?
Si ela é bonita,
ela é traidora.
Di, con mengua de min, que non sabe
que airiños me viran, veleta mal posta...
que cho digan, rapaza, os teus ollos,
que agora me chaman, dempois me desbotan.
Que anque es bonita,
eres traidora.
Si unhas veces amante che falo,
e si outras renego de ti... ¡pecadora!,
¿cales auguas repousan serenas,
si o vento que as manda rebole antre as ondas?
E ti ben sabes
que es revoltosa.
Son canciño de cego en quererte...
Tal bulra merece quen ama sin conta,
pois cos zocos na man ou sin eles
ás portas do inferno seguíndote fora.
Tal estou tolo,
tal es graciosa.
¡Que de marzo marzal teño a cara!...
Quixais que así sea, mais ti, miña xoia,
tamén es cal raiola de marzo,
que agora descrube, que agora se entolda.
Iguales semos,
nena fermosa.
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I
What's with the boy?
Aye, what ails him?
Now he shows me a wintry face,
Then at the fiada such winsome smiles!
He wants me to dance with him at the mill,
And lo in the village doesn't even talk perhaps...
What's with the boy?
Well... what ails him?
Sometimes like a diligent guide dog
He follows me wherever I go,
Nor is there anywhere I don't come across
A Bras with plums and the clogs in hand.
Aye, what laddie!
Aye, what kid!
At another instant, see what nerve!...
Yell-yodels that astound the very place.
(Snort) It looks like he parades proud
Ordering men about, his royal majesty.
Laddie, are you crazy?
Aye! Might you be?
I cannot understand, my love,
What breezes take you, what breezes fetch you,
Nor what character suits you
In the matter, boy, of your courting.
Aye! May God save me
From you, good Bras!
For in my understanding I liken you
To the fickle month of out-and-out March:
In the morning the pleasant look of roses;
In the afternoon a hound dog's poses.
Aye!! We make
A bad pairing!
II
What does the dear enchantress say,
What does the disloyal one say?
Heart that clouds over mourning with the black
Brush-offs the double-faced one hands you,
Why do you live suffering for her?
Why do you, enamoured one, sob in sorrow?
If she is pretty,
She is disloyal.
She says, diminishing me, that she ignores
What breezes whirl me, tottering wind vane...
Let your eyes inform you, lass,
For now they beckon me, then they spurn me.
For although you are pretty,
You are disloyal.
If I speak to you like a lover sometimes,
And if others I disown you... sinner!
What waters indeed remain serene
If the wind swirls amidst the waves it sends?
And you know full well
That you are a mischief-maker.
A diligent guide dog am I for loving you...
Such dig deserves he who loves without tally,
For with clogs in the hand or without them
I would follow you to the gates of hell.
I am that crazy,
You are that delightful.
That I have the face of out-and-out March!...
Perhaps it is so, but you, my jewel,
Are also like the sunshine of March,
That now unveils, and now covers up.
We are alike,
Beautiful girl.
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