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Eu cantar, cantar, cantei,
a grasia non era moita,
que nunca (delo me pesa)
fun eu meniña grasiosa.
Cantei como mal sabía
dándolle reviravoltas,
cal fan aqués que non saben
direitamente unha cousa.
Pero dempois paseniño,
i un pouco máis alto agora,
fun botando as miñas cántigas
como quen non quer a cousa.
Eu ben quixera, é verdade,
que máis boniteiras foran;
eu ben quixera que nelas
bailase o sol cas palomas,
as brandas auguas ca luz
i os aires mainos cas rosas;
que nelas craras se visen
a espuma das verdes ondas,
do ceu as brancas estrelas,
da terra as prantas hermosas,
as niebras de cor sombriso
que aló nas montañas rolan,
os berros do triste moucho,
as campaniñas que dobran,
a primadera que ríe
i os paxariños que voan.
Canta que te canta, mentras
os corazóns tristes choran.
Esto e inda máis, eu quixera
desir con lengua grasiosa;
mais donde a grasia me falta
o sentimiento me sobra,
anque este tampouco abasta
para espricar certas cousas,
que a veces por fora un canta
mentras que por dentro un chora.
Non me espriquei cal quixera
pois son de espricansa pouca;
si grasia en cantar non teño
o amor da patria me afoga.
Eu cantar, cantar, cantei,
a grasia non era moita,
¡Mais que faser, desdichada,
si non nacín máis grasiosa!
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I sang as best I could,
There was not much pizazz,
For never (this bothers me)
Was I a jolly girl.
I sang as I barely knew
Weaving twists and turns,
As do those who are not acquainted
Straight out with something.
But leisurely thereafter,
And now a little louder,
I started putting out my songs
In nonchalant fashion.
I dearly wish, it's true,
They were prettier;
I dearly wish that in them
The sun danced with the doves,
The tranquil waters with the light
And the breezes with the roses;
That through them were seen
The foam of the green ocean waves,
The white stars of the heaven,
The beautiful plants of the soil,
The fogs of murky colour
That yonder on the mountains roll,
The hoots of the sad little owl,
The dear bells that toll,
The springtime that chuckles
And the small birds that fly.
Sing and sing, while
The sorrowing hearts weep.
This and more I would like
To state with witty tongue;
But where fun is wanted
Too much sentiment is present.
Still neither does this suffice
To explain certain matters,
For sometimes one sings outwardly
While one weeps inwardly.
I did not explain myself as I'd like
For I am remiss at explaining:
If I lack sparkle in my singing,
Love of the homeland chokes me.
I sang as best I could,
There was not much pizazz,
But what can be done, unhappy one,
If I was not born with more panache!
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