5,079
edits
Changes
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
Created page with "{{ Cytat | <poem>In Hainaut and Brabant I made Attempts to order sauce with care, But in every inn at which I stayed They always brought me, with my fare, With every roast and..."
{{ Cytat
| <poem>In Hainaut and Brabant I made
Attempts to order sauce with care,
But in every inn at which I stayed
They always brought me, with my fare,
With every roast and mutton dish,
With boar, with rabbit, and with bustard,
With fresh and with salt-water fish,
Always, never asking, mustard.
I took fresh herring, said I’d like
Carp at the pub for midday dinner,
And called for simple boiled pike
And some large sole, to be my supper.
In Brussels, I asked them for green sauce;
A cleric stared and looked disgusted
And a varlet brought me in, of course,
As always, never asking, mustard.
I couldn’t eat or drink without it.
They add it to the water they
Boil the fish in and – don’t doubt it –
The drippings from the roast each day
Are tossed into a mustard vat
In which they’re mixed, and then entrusted
To those who bring – they’re quick at that –
Always, never asking, mustard.
Prince, it’s clear that ginger, clove,
Saffron, pepper are never trusted.
There’s just one thing these people serve:
Always, never asking, mustard.
</poem>
| oryg = <poem>En Haynaut et en Brabant ay
Aprins a sauces ordonner;
Es hostez ou je me logay
Me fist on toudiz apporter
A rost, a mouton, a sangler,
A lievre, a connin, a ostarde,
A poisson d’eaue douce et mer
Tousjours, sanz demander, moustarde.
Harens fres quiz et demanday
Carpe au cabaret pour dyner,
Bequet en l’eaue y ordonnay
Et grosses solles au soupper;
A Brusselles fiz demander
Sauce vert; le clerc me regarde;
Par un varlet me fist donner
Tousjours sans demander moustarde.
Sanz li ne bu ne ne mengay;
Avec l’eaue la font meller
Du poisson et ancor say
Que la graisse du rost gester
Font en la moustarde et bouster.
D’en servir nulz d’eux ne retarde;
La arez vous pour vostre user
Tousjours sanz demander moustarde.
Prince, gingembre, c’est tout cler,
Clos, sapfran, graine n’ont d’eulx garde
Maiz a chascun font destramper
Tousjours sanz demander moustarde.</poem>
| źródło = {{Cyt
| inni = red. Ian S. Laurie, Deborah M. Sinnreich-Levi
| tytuł = Selected Poems
| url = https://epdf.tips/eustache-deschamps-selected-poems-routledge-medieval-texts.html
| nazwisko r = Deschamps
| imię r = Eustache
| rozdział = Tousjours, sanz demander, moustarde
| wydawca = Routledge
| miejsce = New York – London
| rok = 2003
| strony = 116
}} }}
{{ Cytat
| <poem>August gone, so is September;
Autumn's here and now November
Spread out its melancholy and foggy veil.
I won't miss those summer days,
Roses, berries, nightingales,
But there's one thing, one and only, I bewail…
Addio pomodori!
Farewell, my dear beloved,
Beyond my winter table
Little red setting suns.
Here come again, I know it,
Long cold nights when I covet
Those tasty ripe tomatoes
Which I could eat by tons.
I don't care, if I can have
Soups and ketchup, if still
I want to gulp
Your fresh red pulp,
You scrumptious vitamin pills.
Addio pomodori!
Farewell, my dear beloved!
Your scent I shall remember
All dreadful winter long.
</poem>
| oryg = <poem>Minął sierpień, minął wrzesień,
Znów październik i ta jesień
Rozpostarła melancholii mglisty woal.
Nie żałuję letnich dzionków,
Róż, poziomek i skowronków,
Lecz jednego, jedynego jest mi żal…
Addio pomidory!
Addio ulubione
Słoneczka zachodzące
Za mój zimowy stół!
Nadchodzą znów wieczory
Sałatki niejedzonej,
Tęsknoty dojmującej
I łzy przełkniętej w pół.
To cóż, że jeść ja będę
Zupy i tomaty,
Gdy pomnę wciąż
Wasz świeży miąższ
W te witaminy przebogaty?
Addio pomidory!
Addio utracone!
Przez długie, złe miesiące
Wasz zapach będę czuł.
</poem>
| źródło = Jeremi Przybora, ''Addio pomidory'', own translation }}
| <poem>In Hainaut and Brabant I made
Attempts to order sauce with care,
But in every inn at which I stayed
They always brought me, with my fare,
With every roast and mutton dish,
With boar, with rabbit, and with bustard,
With fresh and with salt-water fish,
Always, never asking, mustard.
I took fresh herring, said I’d like
Carp at the pub for midday dinner,
And called for simple boiled pike
And some large sole, to be my supper.
In Brussels, I asked them for green sauce;
A cleric stared and looked disgusted
And a varlet brought me in, of course,
As always, never asking, mustard.
I couldn’t eat or drink without it.
They add it to the water they
Boil the fish in and – don’t doubt it –
The drippings from the roast each day
Are tossed into a mustard vat
In which they’re mixed, and then entrusted
To those who bring – they’re quick at that –
Always, never asking, mustard.
Prince, it’s clear that ginger, clove,
Saffron, pepper are never trusted.
There’s just one thing these people serve:
Always, never asking, mustard.
</poem>
| oryg = <poem>En Haynaut et en Brabant ay
Aprins a sauces ordonner;
Es hostez ou je me logay
Me fist on toudiz apporter
A rost, a mouton, a sangler,
A lievre, a connin, a ostarde,
A poisson d’eaue douce et mer
Tousjours, sanz demander, moustarde.
Harens fres quiz et demanday
Carpe au cabaret pour dyner,
Bequet en l’eaue y ordonnay
Et grosses solles au soupper;
A Brusselles fiz demander
Sauce vert; le clerc me regarde;
Par un varlet me fist donner
Tousjours sans demander moustarde.
Sanz li ne bu ne ne mengay;
Avec l’eaue la font meller
Du poisson et ancor say
Que la graisse du rost gester
Font en la moustarde et bouster.
D’en servir nulz d’eux ne retarde;
La arez vous pour vostre user
Tousjours sanz demander moustarde.
Prince, gingembre, c’est tout cler,
Clos, sapfran, graine n’ont d’eulx garde
Maiz a chascun font destramper
Tousjours sanz demander moustarde.</poem>
| źródło = {{Cyt
| inni = red. Ian S. Laurie, Deborah M. Sinnreich-Levi
| tytuł = Selected Poems
| url = https://epdf.tips/eustache-deschamps-selected-poems-routledge-medieval-texts.html
| nazwisko r = Deschamps
| imię r = Eustache
| rozdział = Tousjours, sanz demander, moustarde
| wydawca = Routledge
| miejsce = New York – London
| rok = 2003
| strony = 116
}} }}
{{ Cytat
| <poem>August gone, so is September;
Autumn's here and now November
Spread out its melancholy and foggy veil.
I won't miss those summer days,
Roses, berries, nightingales,
But there's one thing, one and only, I bewail…
Addio pomodori!
Farewell, my dear beloved,
Beyond my winter table
Little red setting suns.
Here come again, I know it,
Long cold nights when I covet
Those tasty ripe tomatoes
Which I could eat by tons.
I don't care, if I can have
Soups and ketchup, if still
I want to gulp
Your fresh red pulp,
You scrumptious vitamin pills.
Addio pomodori!
Farewell, my dear beloved!
Your scent I shall remember
All dreadful winter long.
</poem>
| oryg = <poem>Minął sierpień, minął wrzesień,
Znów październik i ta jesień
Rozpostarła melancholii mglisty woal.
Nie żałuję letnich dzionków,
Róż, poziomek i skowronków,
Lecz jednego, jedynego jest mi żal…
Addio pomidory!
Addio ulubione
Słoneczka zachodzące
Za mój zimowy stół!
Nadchodzą znów wieczory
Sałatki niejedzonej,
Tęsknoty dojmującej
I łzy przełkniętej w pół.
To cóż, że jeść ja będę
Zupy i tomaty,
Gdy pomnę wciąż
Wasz świeży miąższ
W te witaminy przebogaty?
Addio pomidory!
Addio utracone!
Przez długie, złe miesiące
Wasz zapach będę czuł.
</poem>
| źródło = Jeremi Przybora, ''Addio pomidory'', own translation }}
