Translation from Galician to English of CANTARES GALLEGOS by Rosalia de Castro

35. My Saint Margaret (Miña Santa Margarida)

Background

The following biography was extracted from the Spanish website, Vida de los santos (Life of the saints).

St. Margaret Queen of Scotland (1046-1093). Born in Hungary around the year 1045, the daughter of Prince Eduardo de Ultramar and Queen Agueda. While still a child she was sent to the English court, being the niece of King Edward the First. a.k.a. Confessor. Shortly after the death of King Edward in 1066 came the Norman invasion of William the Conqueror and Margaret's mother fled with her three children to Scotland and to King Malcom the Third. The Scottish king married Margaret and she became queen. As Queen of Scotland she chaired Christian councils and assemblies, managed the royal Dunfermline Palace and turned it into a hospital, for she housed there the sick and the invalid. She founded churches and financed many charitable organizations. An English blackguard murdered her husband and her first-born son, Edward. "Full of merits" she died on November 16, 1093. She was of a "kind, intelligent, charitable and devout" disposition.

Affectionate Diminutives

luniña. Dim. of "luna" (moon) translated "mild moon" because "luniña" is the third item of an array (3.1) where the first two, starlight and diamonds, are named without affection and emit what might emotionally be termed a "cold" light. In contrast, a full moon emits a "warm" light in the night sky. Other options: mellow, warm.
mañanciña (early morning hours). Not an affectionate diminutive.
miña (my). Not a diminutive.
paxariño. Dim. of "paxaro" (bird) translated "little bird." Another option: small.

Explanation of some words, terms or expressions

xílmendro (4.1). Unknown. The almond tree most likely.

Thou hast thy house on the hill (12.3). There are several chapels built in honour of St. Margaret on high places of Galicia.

Miña Santa Margarida,
¿con quen te hei de comparare?
Coma ti non vin ningunha,
nin na terra nin no mare.

Coma ti, Santa bendita,
tan garrida e tan presiosa,
nin brilou ningunha estrela,
nin se abreu ningunha rosa.

Nin luceiro, nin diamante,
nin luniña trasparente,
luz verteu máis cariñosa
que o teu rostro relucente.

Nin as froles do xílmendro,
nin a rosa purpurina,
nin as neves da montaña,
nin fulgor da mañanciña;

nin alegre sol dourado,
nin corrente de augua pura,
miña Santa Margarida,
che asemella en hermosura.

¿Con quen te hei de comparare,
miña Santa Margarida,
si ti foche anxel de amore
polos anxes escollida?

Solo a Virxe é máis hermosa
que eres ti, bendita Santa,
i o teu rostro pelegrino
ó temido demo espanta.

De ti vivo namorada,
en ti penso con fervore,
que eu ben sei que che contenta
este puro e santo amore.

¡Quen poidera...! ¡Quen poidera
xunta ti vivir segura,
manantial que mel derrama,
pura fonte de ternura!

Onda ti, lonxe do mundo,
tan feliz me acobexara
que en jamáis o pracer vano
este meu mirar tornara.

Que no monte onda ti moras
tan bon aire se respira,
que o que máis do mundo foxe
solo alí por Dios suspira.

Miña Santa Margarida,
miña Margarida santa,
tendes a casa no monte,
donde o paxariño canta.

My Saint Margaret,
Whom shall I compare you to?
I did not see anyone like you,
Either on land or at sea.

No star shone
Or rose bloomed
Like you, blessed Saint,
So attractive and so precious.

No celestial body or diamond,
Nor transparent mild moon,
Sent forth a kindlier light
Than your refulgent face.

Nor the flowers of the almond tree,
Nor the purple rose,
Nor the snows of the mountain,
Nor brightness of early morning hours;

Nor jovial gilded sun,
Nor stream of pure water,
My Saint Margaret,
Resembles you in beauty.

Whom shall I compare you to,
My Saint Margaret,
Since you were angel of love
Selected by the angels?

Our Lady alone is lovelier
Than you are, blessed Saint,
And your pilgrim semblance
Drives the feared devil away.

I live in love with you,
I ponder you with fervour,
For well I know that this pure
And saintly love gladdens you.

Who could...! Who could
Live secure beside you,
Fountain-head that pours forth honey,
Pure fountain of tenderness!

I'd take shelter where you are,
Far from the world, so happy
That I would never turn
My gaze toward vain pleasure.

For on the hill where you dwell
Such fine air is breathed,
That he who flees most from the world
There only sighs for God.

My Saint Margaret,
My Margaret sainted,
Thou hast thy house on the hill,
Where the little bird sings.

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