Текст и перевод песни Roger Mas - Lo comte Arnau

Lo comte Arnau

Lo comte de Mataplana
Ne tenia dos cavalls:
L'un era blanc com la gebre
L'altre fosc com lo pecat

Malhaja lo cavall negre
Benhaja lo cavall blanc
Malhaja lo cavall negre
Benhaja lo cavall blanc

Un matí de la hivernada lo negre feia ensellar
La comtessa ja li'n deia:
Per què no enselles lo blanc?
Perquè fuig dels camins aspres
I a mi em plauen més que els plans
La comtessa ja hi tornava:
Mon marit, no ho fesses pas
Lo negre em sembla el diable
Déu nos lo tinga allunyat
Ell no li torna resposta
Com si sentia tronar:
Al negre posa la sella
Baldament fos Satanàs
Adéu, la comtessa aimada
Déu te guie i l'Àngel Sant

L'Àngel prou lo guiaria
Mes ell no es deixa guiar
Lo guiaria a l'església
I ell a la vila fa cap
On hi ha nines que perdre
I pobres per escanyar

Malhaja lo cavall negre
Benhaja lo cavall blanc

Quan sortia de la vila
Semblava un esperitat:
Corria lo cavall negre
Corria com si volàs

Tantost per les altes cimes
Com pel fons del xaragall

Los gumbernesos se senyen
Quan lo veuen desbocat

Los llops d'aquelles muntanyes
Lo segueixen udolant

Algun d'ells per simpatia
Los altres olorant carn
Que n'esperen un bon àpat
Més amunt o més avall

Sos ulls semblen llumenetes
Llumenetes infernals

Al sentir sa udoladissa
Lo comte s'és esglaiat

Voldria girar lo poltre
Mes ja no el pot aturar

Malhaja lo cavall negre
Benhaja lo cavall blanc

A la nit, que és fosca fosca, se barreja el temporal
I els pastors al comte veuen
Entremig de trons i llamps

Volar d'una cresta a l'altra
Del Montgrony vers les afraus

La tempesta esgarrifosa
A mitjanit fa un esclat

D'un llampec entre les ales
S'obira lo comte Arnau

Rodelant de l'alta cima
De Santou dins lo Forat
D'on surt entre rius de flama
Lo renill del seu cavall

La comtessa l'esperava
A la porta del palau
Passen hores, passen dies
Passen nits de por i espant

A la tercera que passa
Lo'n veu venir condemnat

La nit era negra, negra
Més negre era son cavall
Son cavall, que era el diable
Déu nos lo tinga allunyat

La nit era negra, negra
Més negre era son cavall
Son cavall, que era el diable
Déu nos lo tinga allunyat

Malhaja lo cavall negre
Benhaja lo cavall blanc
Malhaja lo cavall negre
Benhaja lo cavall blanc

Lo comte de Mataplana
Ne tenia dos cavalls:
L'un era blanc com la gebre
L'altre fosc com lo pecat

The Count Arnau

The Count of Mataplana
Had two steeds so grand:
One as white as winter's frost,
The other, dark as sin's hand.

Woe betide the black steed's might,
Blessed be the white steed's grace.
Woe betide the black steed's plight,
Blessed be the white steed's space.

One winter morn, the black he'd mount,
The Countess pleaded with a frown,
"Why not the white, my dearest Count?"
"For it shuns paths rough and brown,
And I prefer those to the town."
The Countess then with worry spoke,
"My husband, don't, I beg of thee,
The black seems like the devil's yoke,
May God keep it far from me!"
He gave no answer, cold and stark,
As if he heard but thunder's sound,
On the black, the saddle's mark,
Though it were Satan, hell-bound.
"Farewell, my Countess, loved and true,
May God and angels guide your way."

Angels would guide him, yes indeed,
But he refused their guiding light,
To church they'd lead, a pious deed,
He heads to town, with all his might,
Where maids are lost in darkest night,
And poor souls meet an early plight.

Woe betide the black steed's might,
Blessed be the white steed's grace.

When from the town he did depart,
He seemed a spirit, wild and free,
The black steed ran with wicked heart,
As if it flew, for all to see.

Across the peaks, so high and steep,
And through the ravine's depths profound.

The shepherds cross themselves in sleep,
When seeing him, unhinged and unbound.

The wolves within those mountains high,
Follow him, howling in the night.

Some drawn to him, with mournful cry,
Others scent flesh in pale moonlight,
They hope for a feast, with all their might,
Up high or low, in darkest plight.

His eyes like flames, that brightly gleam,
Infernal flames, a wicked scene.

Hearing their howls, a mournful sound,
The Count is filled with sudden dread.

He'd turn the steed, on cursed ground,
But it won't stop, it races ahead.

Woe betide the black steed's might,
Blessed be the white steed's grace.

At night, so dark, the storm takes hold,
The shepherds see the Count's dark form,
Amidst the thunder, fierce and bold,

He flies from peak to peak, so cold,
From Montgrony to depths untold.

The storm, so chilling, fills the air,
At midnight, lightning splits the sky.

A flash between its wings so fair,
Count Arnau opens, with a cry.

He tumbles from the mountain's crest,
From Santou to the chasm's heart,
Where flames erupt, a fiery test,
His steed's shrill neigh, a mournful art.

The Countess waits, with anxious eyes,
At the palace gate, where shadows creep.
Hours pass, and days, beneath the skies,
Nights filled with fear, where nightmares leap.

On the third night, as darkness falls,
She sees him come, damned and alone.

The night was black, like blackened walls,
Blacker his steed, with mournful groan,
His steed, the devil, flesh and bone,
May God keep it far from our own.

The night was black, like endless night,
Blacker his steed, with eyes of fire,
His steed, the devil, taking flight,
May God keep it from our desire.

Woe betide the black steed's might,
Blessed be the white steed's grace.
Woe betide the black steed's plight,
Blessed be the white steed's space.

The Count of Mataplana's fate,
Two steeds he had, both grand and bold,
One white as frost, one dark as hate,
A tale of sin, forever told.