La Chanson de Roland

Laisses C - CLIX

 


f.24r
 
 
 

1295 		 C 
Et Engelers li Guascuinz de Burdele 
Sun cheval (...) brochet, si li laschet la resne, 
Si vait ferir Escremiz de Valterne: 
L'escut del col li freint e escantelet, 
De sun osberc li rumpit la ventaille, 
Sil fiert el piz entre les dous furceles, 
Pleine sa hanste l'abat mort de la sele; 
Apres li dist: «Turnet estes a perdre!» AOI.		 C
And Engelers the Gascoin of Burdele
Spurs on his horse, lets fall the reins as well,
He goes to strike Escremiz of Valtrene,
The shield he breaks and shatters on his neck,
The hauberk too, he has its chinguard rent,
Between the arm-pits has pierced him through the breast,
On his spear's hilt from saddle throws him dead;
After he says "So are you turned to hell." AOI.
     

 
 

1300		 CI 
E Gualter fie[r]t un paien, Estorgans, 
Sur sun escut en la pene devant, 
Que tut li trenchet le vermeill e le blanc; 
De sun osberc li ad rumput les pans, 
El cors li met sun bon espiet tre[n]chant, 
Que mort l'abat de sun cheval curant. 
Apres li dist: «Ja n'i avrez guarant!»		 CI
And Otes strikes a pagan Estorgant
Upon the shield, before its leathern band,
Slices it through, the white with the scarlat;
The hauberk too, has torn its folds apart,
And his good spear thrusts clean through the carcass,
And flings it dead, ev'n as the horse goes past;
He says: "You have no warrant afterward."
     

1305
 
 
 

1310		 CII 
E Berenger, il fiert Astramariz: 
L'escut li freinst, l'osberc li descumfist, 
Sun fort escut par mi le cors li mist, 
Que mort l'abat entre mil Sarrazins. 
Des .XII. pers li .X. en sunt ocis; 
Ne mes que dous n'en i ad remes vifs; 
Ço est Chernubles e li quens Margariz.		 CII
And Berenger, he strikes Estramariz,
The shield he breaks, the hauberk tears and splits,
Thrusts his stout spear through's middle, and him flings
Down dead among a thousand Sarrazins.
Of their dozen peers ten have now been killed,
No more than two remain alive and quick,
Being Chernuble, and the count Margariz.
     


 
 
 

1315
 

f.24rv

CIII 
Margariz est mult vaillant chevalers, 
E bels e forz e isnels e legers. 
Le cheval brochet, vait ferir Oliver: 
L'escut li freint suz la bucle d'or mer, 
Lez le costet li conduist sun espiet. 
Deus le guarit, qu'el(l) cors ne l'ad tuchet. 
La hanste fruisset, mie n'en a(d)[b]atiet. 
Ultre s'en vait, qu'il n'i ad desturber; 
Sunet sun gresle pur les soens ralier.		 CIII
Margariz is a very gallant knight,
Both fair and strong, and swift he is and light;
He spurs his horse, goes Oliver to strike,
And breaks his shield, by th'golden buckle bright;
Along his ribs the pagan's spear doth glide;
God's his warrant, his body has respite,
The shaft breaks off, Oliver stays upright;
That other goes, naught stays him in his flight,
His trumpet sounds, rallies his tribe to fight.
     


1320
 
 
 

1325
 
 
 

1330
 
 
 

1335

CIV 
La bataille est merveilluse e cumune. 
Li quens Rollant mie ne s'asoüret, 
Fiert de l'espiet tant cume hanste li duret; 
A .XV. cols l'ad fraite e [...] perdue, 
Trait Durendal, sa bone espee nue, 
Sun cheval brochet, si vait ferir Chernuble: 
L'elme li freint u li carbuncle luisent, 
Trenchet la cors e la cheveleüre, 
Si li trenchat les oilz e la faiture, 
Le blanc osberc, dunt la maile est menue, 
E tut le cors tresqu'en la furcheüre, 
Enz en la sele, ki est a or batue; 
El cheval est l'espee aresteüe, 
Trenchet l'eschine, hunc n'i out quis [joi]nture, 
Tut abat mort el pred sur l'erbe drue; 
Apres li dist: «Culvert, mar i moüstes! 
De Mahumet ja n'i avrez aiude. 
Par tel glutun n'ert bataille oi vencue.»		 CIV
Common the fight is now and marvellous.
The count Rollanz no way himself secures,
Strikes with his spear, long as the shaft endures,
By fifteen blows it is clean broken through
Then Durendal he bares, his sabre good
Spurs on his horse, is gone to strike Chemuble,
The helmet breaks, where bright carbuncles grew,
Slices the cap and shears the locks in two,
Slices also the eyes and the features,
The hauberk white, whose mail was close of woof,
Down to the groin cuts all his body through
To the saddle; with beaten gold 'twas tooled.
Upon the horse that sword a moment stood,
Then sliced its spine, no join there any knew,
Dead in the field among thick grass them threw.
After he said  "Culvert, false step you moved,
From Mahumet your help will not come soon.
No victory for gluttons such as you."
     

1340
 
 
 
 

1345
f.25r
 
 

1350

CV 
Li quens Rollant par mi le champ chevalchet, 
Tient Durendal, ki ben trenchet e taillet, 
Des Sarrazins lur fait mult grant damage. 
Ki lui veïst l'un geter mort su[r] l'altre, 
Li sanc tuz clers gesir par cele place! 
Sanglant en ad e l'osberc e [la] brace, 
Sun bon cheval le col e les [es]palles. 
E Oliver de ferir ne se target, 
Li .XII. per n'en deivent aveir blasme, 
E li Franceis i fierent e si caplent. 
Moerent paien e alquanz en i pasment. 
Dist l'arcevesque: «Ben ait nostre barnage!» 
- «Munjoie!» escriet, ço est l'enseigne Carle. AOI.		 CV
The count Rollanz, he canters through the field,
Holds Durendal, he well can thrust and wield,
Right great damage he's done the Sarrazines
You'd seen them, one on other, dead in heaps,
Through all that place their blood was flowing clear!
In blood his arms were and his hauberk steeped,
And bloodied o'er, shoulders and neck, his steed.
And Oliver goes on to strike with speed;
No blame that way deserve the dozen peers,
For all the Franks they strike and slay with heat,
Pagans are slain, some swoon there in their seats,
Says the Archbishop: "Good baronage indeed!"
"Monjoie" he cries, the call of Charles repeats. AOI.
     


 
 
 

1355 
 
 
 

1360
 
 
 

1365

CVI 
E Oliver chevalchet par l'estor, 
Sa hanste est frait, n'en ad que un trunçun, 
E vait fer(en)[ir] un paien, Malun: 
L'escut li freint, ki est ad or e a flur, 
Fors de la teste li met les oilz ansdous, 
E la cervele li chet as piez desuz; 
Mort le tresturnet od tut .VII.C. des lur. 
Pois ad ocis Turgis e Esturguz; 
La hanste briset e esclicet josqu'as poinz. 
Ço dist Rollant: «Cumpainz, que faites vos?
En tel bataille n'ai cure de bastun; 
Fers e acers i deit aveir valor. 
U est vostre espee, ki Halteclere ad num? 
D'or est li helz e de cristal li punz.» 
- «Ne la poi traire,» Oliver li respunt, 
«Kar de ferir oi jo si grant bosoign.» AOI.		 CVI
And Oliver has cantered through the crush;
Broken his spear, the truncheon still he thrusts;
Going to strike a pagan Malsarun;
Flowers and gold, are on the shield, he cuts,
Out of the head both the two eyes have burst,
And all the brains are fallen in the dust;
He flings him dead, sev'n hundred else amongst.
Then has he slain Turgin and Esturgus;
Right to the hilt, his spear in flinders flew.
Then says Rollant: "Companion, what do you?
In such a fight, there's little strength in wood,
Iron and steel should here their valour prove.
Where is your sword, that Halteclere I knew?
Golden its hilt, whereon a crystal grew."
Says Oliver: "I had not, if I drew,
Time left to strike enough good blows and true." AOI.
     


 
 

1370
 
 

f.25v
1375

CVII 
Danz Oliver trait ad sa bone espee, 
Que ses cumpainz Rollant li ad tant demandee, 
E il li ad cum chevaler mustree. 
Fiert un paien, Justin de Val Ferree: 
Tute la teste li ad par mi sevree, 
Trenchet le cors e [la] bronie safree, 
La bone sele, ki a ór est gemmee, 
E al ceval a l'eschine trenchee; 
Tut abat mort devant loi en la pree. 
Ço dist Rollant: «Vos receif jo, frere! 
Por itels colps nos eimet li emperere.» 
De tutes parz est «Munjo[i]e» escriee. AOI.		 CVII
Then Oliver has drawn his mighty sword
As his comrade had bidden and implored,
In knightly wise the blade to him has shewed;
Justin he strikes, that Iron Valley's lord,
All of his head has down the middle shorn,
The carcass sliced, the broidered sark has torn,
The good saddle that was with old adorned,
And through the spine has sliced that pagan's horse;
Dead in the field before his feet they fall.
Says Rollant: "Now my brother I you call;
He'll love us for such blows, our Emperor."
On every side "Monjoie" you'ld hear them roar. AOI.
     

1380
 
 
 

1385
 
 
 

1390
 
 
 

1395

CVIII 
Li quens Gerins set el ceval Sorel 
E sis cumpainz Gerers en Passecerf, 
Laschent lor reisnes, brochent amdui a ait, 
E vunt ferir un paien, Timozel, 
L'un en l'escut e li altre en l'osberc, 
Lur dous espiez enz el cors li unt frait, 
Mort le tresturnent tres enmi un guaret, 
Ne l'oï dire ne jo mie nel sai 
Liquels d'els dous en fut li plus isnels. 
Esprieres icil fut filz Burdel, 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
E l'arcevesque lor ocist Siglorel, 
L'encanteür ki ja fut en enfer: 
Par artimal l'i cundoist Jupiter. 
Ço dist Turpin: «Icist nos ert forsfait.» 
Respunt Rollant: «Vencut est le culvert. 
Oliver, frere, itels colps me sunt bel!»		 CVIII
That count Gerins sate on his horse Sorel,
On Passe-Cerf was Gerers there, his friend;
They've loosed their reins, together spurred and sped,
And go to strike a pagan Timozel;
One on the shield, on hauberk the other fell;
And their two spears went through the carcass well,
A fallow field amidst they've thrown him dead.
I do not know, I never heard it said
Which of the two was nimbler as they went.
Esperveris was there, son of Borel,
And him there slew Engelers of Burdel.
And the Archbishop, he slew them Siglorel,
The enchanter, who before had been in hell,
Where Jupiter bore him by a magic spell.
Then Turpin says "To us he's forfeited."
Answers Rollanz: "The culvert is bested.
Such blows, brother Olivier, I like well."
     


 
 
 

1400
 

f.26r

1405
 
 
 

1410

CIX 
La bataille est aduree endementres. 
Franc e paien merveilus colps i rendent. 
Fierent li un, li altre se defendent. 
Tant hanste i ad e fraite e sanglente, 
Tant gunfanun rumpu e tant enseigne! 
Tant bon Franceis i perdent lor juvente! 
Ne reverrunt lor meres ne lor femmes, 
Ne cels de France ki as porz les atendent. AOI. 
Karles li magnes en pluret, si se demente. 
De ço qui calt? N'en avrunt sucurance. 
Malvais servis[e] le jur li rendit Guenes, 
Qu'en Sarraguce sa maisnee alat vendre; 
Puis en perdit e sa vie e ses membres; 
El plait ad Ais en fut juget a prendre, 
De ses parenz ensembl'od lui tels trente 
Ki de murir nen ourent esperance. AOI.		 CIX
The battle grows more hard and harder yet,
Franks and pagans, with marvellous onset,
Each other strike and each himself defends.
So many shafts bloodstained and shattered,
So many flags and ensigns tattered;
So many Franks lose their young lustihead,
Who'll see no more their mothers nor their friends,
Nor hosts of France, that in the pass attend.
Charles the Great weeps therefor with regret.
What profits that?  No succour shall they get.
Evil service, that day, Guenes rendered them,
To Sarraguce going, his own to sell.
After he lost his members and his head,
In court, at Aix, to gallows-tree condemned;
And thirty more with him, of his kindred,
Were hanged, a thing they never did expect. AOI.
     


 
 

1415
 
 
 

1420
 
 
 

1425
 
 
 

1430
f.26v
 
 

1435

CX 
La bataille est merveilluse e pesant; 
Mult ben i fiert Oliver e Rollant, 
Li arcevesques plus de mil colps i rent, 
Li .XII. per ne s'en targent nient, 
E li Franceis i fierent cumunement. 
Moerent paien a miller(e)[s] e a cent; 
Ki ne s'en fuit de mort n'i ad guarent; 
Voillet o nun, tut i laisset sun tens. 
Franceis i perdent lor meillors guarnemenz; 
Ne reverrunt lor peres ne lor parenz 
Ne Carlemagne, ki as porz les atent. 
En France en ad mult merveillus turment; 
Orez i ad de tuneire e de vent, 
Pluies e gresilz desmesureement; 
Chiedent i fuildres e menut e suvent, 
E terremoete ço i ad veirement. 
De seint Michel de(l) P(aris)[eril] josqu'as Seinz 
Des Besençun tresqu'as [port] de Guitsand 
N'en ad recet dunt del mur ne cravent. 
Cuntre midi tenebres i ad granz; 
N'i ad clartet, se li ciels nen i fent. 
Hume nel veit,ki mult ne s espaent. 
Dient plusor: «Ço est li definement, 
La fin del secle ki nus est en present.» 
Il nel sevent, ne dient veir nient: 
Ço est li granz dulors por la mort de Rollant.		 CX
Now marvellous and weighty the combat,
Right well they strike, Olivier and Rollant,
A thousand blows come from the Archbishop's hand,
The dozen peers are nothing short of that,
With one accord join battle all the Franks.
Pagans are slain by hundred, by thousand,
Who flies not then, from death has no warrant,
Will he or nill, foregoes the allotted span.
The Franks have lost the foremost of their band,
They'll see no more their fathers nor their clans,
Nor Charlemagne, where in the pass he stands.
Torment arose, right marvellous, in France,
Tempest there was, of wind and thunder black,
With rain and hail, so much could not be spanned;
Fell thunderbolts often on every hand,
And verily the earth quaked in answer back
From Saint Michael of Peril unto Sanz,
From Besencun to the harbour of Guitsand;
No house stood there but straight its walls must crack:
In full mid-day the darkness was so grand,
Save the sky split, no light was in the land.
Beheld these things with terror every man,
And many said: "We in the Judgement stand;
The end of time is presently at hand."
They spake no truth; they did not understand;
'Twas the great day of mourning for Rollant.
     


 

1440
 
 
 

1445

CXI 
Franceis i unt ferut de coer e de vigur; 
Paien sunt morz a millers e a fuls: 
De cent millers n'en poent guarir dous. 
Rollant dist: «Nostre hume sunt mult proz: 
Suz ciel n'ad home plus en ait de meillors.» 
Il est escrit en la Geste Francor 
Que vassals ad li nostre empereür. 
Vunt par le camp, si requerent les lor, 
Plurent des oilz de doel e de tendrur 
Por lor parenz par coer e par amor. 
Li reis Marsilie od sa grant ost lor surt. AOI.		 CXI
The Franks strike on; their hearts are good and stout.
Pagans are slain, a thousandfold, in crowds,
Left of five score are not two thousands now.
Says the Archbishop: "Our men are very proud,
No man on earth has more nor better found.
In Chronicles of Franks is written down,
What vassalage he had, our Emperour."
Then through the field they go, their friends seek out,
And their eyes weep with grief and pain profound
For kinsmen dear, by hearty friendship bound.
King Marsilies and his great host draw round. AOI.
     

1450
 
 
 

1455
 
 

f.27r
1460
 
 
 

1465

CXII 
Marsilie vient par mi une valee 
Od sa grant ost que il out asemblee. 
.XX. escheles ad li reis anumbrees. 
Lacent cil'elme as perres d'or gemmees, 
E cil escuz e cez bronies sasfrees; 
.VII. milie graisles i sunent la menee: 
Grant est la noise par tute la contree. 
Ço dist Rollant: «Oliver, compaign, frere, 
Guenes li fels ad nostre mort juree; 
La traïsun ne poet estre celee; 
Mult grant venjance en prendrat l'emperere. 
Bataille avrum e forte [e] aduree, 
Unches mais hom tel ne vit ajustee. 
Jo i ferrai de Durendal, m'espee, 
E vos, compainz, ferrez de Halteclere. 
En tanz lius les avum nos portees! 
Tantes batailles en avum afinees! 
Male chançun n'en deit estre cantee.» AOI.		 CXII
King Marsilies along a valley led
The mighty host that he had gathered.
Twenty columns that king had numbered.
With gleaminag gold their helms were jewelled.
Shone too their shields and sarks embroidered.
Sounded the charge seven thousand trumpets,
Great was the noise through all that country went.
Then said Rollanz: "Olivier, brother, friend,
That felon Guenes hath sworn to achieve our death;
For his treason no longer is secret.
Right great vengeance our Emperour will get.
Battle we'll have, both long and keenly set,
Never has man beheld such armies met.
With Durendal my sword I'll strike again,
And, comrade, you shall strike with Halteclere.
These swords in lands so many have we held,
Battles with them so many brought to end,
No evil song shall e'er be sung or said." AOI.
     


 
 

1470
 
 
 

1475
 
 
 

1480
 
 
 

1485

CXIII 
Marsilies veit de sa gent le martirie, 
Si fait suner ses cors e ses buisines, 
Puis si chevalchet od sa grant ost banie. 
Devant chevalchet un Sarrasin, Abisme: 
Plus fel de lui n'out en sa cumpagnie. 
Te(t)ches ad males e mult granz felonies; 
Ne creit en Deu, le filz sainte Marie; 
Issi est neirs cume peiz ki est demise; 
Plus aimet il traïsun e murdrie 
Qu'(e) il ne fesist trestut l'or de Galice; 
Unches nuls hom nel vit juer ne rire. 
Vasselage ad e mult grant estultie: 
Por ço est drud al felun rei Marsilie; 
Sun dragun portet a qui sa gent s'alient. 
Li arcevesque ne l'amerat ja mie; 
Cum il le vit, a ferir le desiret. 
Mult quiement le dit a sei meïsme: 
«Cel Sarraz[in] me semblet mult herite: 
Mielz est mult que jo l'alge ocire. 
Unches n'amai cuard ne cuardie.» AOI.		 CXIII
Their martyrdom, his men's, Marsile has seen,
So he bids sound his horns and his buccines;
Then canters forth with all his great army.
Canters before a Sarrazin, Abisme,
More felon none was in that company;
Cankered with guile and every felony,
He fears not God, the Son of Saint Mary;
Black is that man as molten pitch that seethes;
Better he loves murder and treachery
Than to have all the gold of Galicie;
Never has man beheld him sport for glee;
Yet vassalage he's shown, and great folly,
So is he dear to th' felon king Marsile;
Dragon he bears, to which his tribe rally.
That Archbishop could never love him, he;
Seeing him there, to strike he's very keen,
Within himself he says all quietly:
"This Sarrazin great heretick meseems,
Rather I'ld die, than not slay him clean,
Neer did I love coward nor cowardice." AOI.
     


f.27v
 

1490
 
 
 

1495
 
 
 

1500
 
 
 

1505

CXIV 
Li arcevesque cumencet la bataille. 
Siet el cheval qu'il tolit a Grossaille, 
Ço ert uns reis qu'l ocist en Denemarche. 
Li destrers est e curanz e aates, 
Piez ad copiez e les gambes ad plates, 
Curte la quisse e la crupe bien large, 
Lungs les costez e l'eschine ad ben halte, 
Blanche la cue e la crignete jalne 
Petites les oreilles, la teste tute falve; 
Beste nen est nule ki encontre lui alge. 
Li arcevesque brochet par tant grant vasselage: 
Ne laisserat qu'Abisme nen asaillet; 
Vait le ferir en l'escut amiracle: 
Pierres i ad, ametistes e topazes, 
Esterminals e carbuncles ki ardent; 
En Val Metas li dunat uns diables, 
Si li tramist li amiralz Galafes. 
Turpins i fiert, ki nient ne l'esparignet, 
Enpres sun colp ne quid que un dener vaillet, 
Le cors li trenchet tres l'un costet qu'a l'altre, 
Que mort l'abat en une voide place. 
Dient Franceis: «Ci ad grant vasselage! 
En l'arcevesque est ben la croce salve.»		 CXIV
That Archbishop begins the fight again,
Sitting the horse which he took from Grossaille
-- That was a king he had in Denmark slain; --
That charger is swift and of noble race;
Fine are his hooves, his legs are smooth and straight,
Short are his thighs, broad crupper he displays,
Long are his ribs, aloft his spine is raised,
White is his tail and yellow is his mane,
Little his ears, and tawny all his face;
No beast is there, can match him in a race.
That Archbishop spurs on by vassalage,
He will not pause ere Abisme he assail;
So strikes that shield, is wonderfully arrayed,
Whereon are stones, amethyst and topaze,
Esterminals and carbuncles that blaze;
A devil's gift it was, in Val Metase,
Who handed it to the admiral Galafes;
So Turpin strikes, spares him not anyway;
After that blow, he's worth no penny wage;
The carcass he's sliced, rib from rib away,
So flings him down dead in an empty place.
Then say the Franks: "He has great vassalage,
With the Archbishop, surely the Cross is safe."
     


1510
 
 
 

f.28r
 
 
 

1520
 
 
 

1525

CXV 
Franceis veient que paiens i ad tant, 
De tutes parz en sunt cuvert li camp; 
Suvent regretent Oliver e Rollant 
Les .XII. pers, qu'il lor seient guarant. 
E l'arcevesque lur dist de sun semblant: 
«Seignors barons, n'en alez mespensant! 
Pur Deu vos pri que ne seiez fuiant, 
Que nuls prozdom malvaisement n'en chant. 
Asez est mielz que moerium cumbatant. 
Pramis nus est, fin prendrum a itant, 
Ultre cest jurn ne serum plus vivant; 
Mais d'une chose vos soi jo ben guarant: 
Seint pareïs vos est abandunant; 
As Innocenz vos en serez seant.» 
A icest mot si s'esbaldissent Franc, 
Cel nen i ad «Munjoie!» ne demant. AOI.		 CXV
When the Franks see so many there, pagans,
On every side covering all the land,
Often they call Olivier and Rollant,
The dozen peers, to be their safe warrant.
And the Archbishop speaks to them, as he can:
"My lords barons, go thinking nothing bad!
For God I pray you fly not hence but stand,
Lest evil songs of our valour men chant!
Far better t'were to perish in the van.
Certain it is, our end is near at hand,
Beyond this day shall no more live one man;
But of one thing I give you good warrant:
Blest Paradise to you now open stands,
By the Innocents your thrones you there shall have."
Upon these words grow bold again the Franks;
There is not one but he "Monjoie" demands. AOI.
     


 
 
 

1530
 
 
 

1535
 
 
 

1540
 

f.28v

CXVI 
Un Sarrazin i out de Sarraguce, 
De la citet l'une meitet est sue: 
Ço est Climborins, ki pas ne fut produme. 
Fiance prist de Guenelun le cunte, 
Par amistiet l'en baisat en la buche, 
Si l'en dunat s'espee e s'escarbuncle. 
Tere Major ço dit, metrat a hunte, 
A l'emperere si toldrat la curone. 
Siet el ceval qu'il cleimet Barbamusche, 
Plus est isnels que esprever ne arunde. 
Brochet le bien, le frein li abandunet, 
Si vait ferir Engeler de Guascoigne. 
Nel poet guarir sun escut ne sa bronie: 
De sun espiet el cors li met la mure, 
Empeint le ben, tut le fer li mist ultre, 
Pleine sa hanste el camp mort le tresturnet. 
Apres escriet: «Cist sunt bon a (o)[c]unfundre! 
Ferez, paien, pur la presse derumpre!» 
Dient Franceis: «Deus quel doel de prodome!» AOI.		 CXVI
A Sarrazin was there, of Sarraguce,
Of that city one half was his by use,
'Twas Climborins, a man was nothing proof;
By Guenelun the count an oath he took,
And kissed his mouth in amity and truth,
Gave him his sword and his carbuncle too.
Terra Major, he said, to shame he'ld put,
From the Emperour his crown he would remove.
He sate his horse, which he called Barbamusche,
Never so swift sparrow nor swallow flew,
He spurred him well, and down the reins he threw,
Going to strike Engelier of Gascune;
Nor shield nor sark him any warrant proved,
The pagan spear's point did his body wound,
He pinned him well, and all the steel sent through,
From the hilt flung him dead beneath his foot.
After he said: "Good are they to confuse.
Pagans, strike on, and so this press set loose!"
"God!" say the Franks, "Grief, such a man to lose!" AOI.
     


1545
 
 
 

1550
 
 
 

1555
 
 
 

1560

CXVII 
Li quens Rollant en apelet Oliver: 
«Sire cumpainz, ja est morz Engeler; 
Nus n'avium plus vaillant chevaler.» 
Respont li quens: «Deus le me doinst venger!» 
Sun cheval brochet des esperuns d'or mier, 
Tient Halteclere, sanglent en est l'acer, 
Par grant vertut vait ferir le paien. 
Brandist sun colp e li Sarrazins chiet; 
L'anme de lui en portent aversers. 
Puis ad ocis le duc Alphaïen; 
Escababi i ad le chef trenchet; 
.VII. Arrabiz i ad deschevalcet: 
Cil ne sunt proz ja mais pur guerreier. 
Ço dist Rollant: «Mis cumpainz est irez! 
Encuntre mei fait asez a preiser. 
Pur itels colps nos ad Charles plus cher.» 
A voiz escriet: «Ferez i, chevaler!» AOI.		 CXVII
The count Rollanz called upon Oliver:
"Sir companion, dead now is Engeler;
Than whom we'd no more valiant chevalier."
Answered that count: "God, let me him avenge!"
Spurs of fine gold into his horse drove then,
Held Halteclere, with blood its steel was red,
By virtue great to strike that pagan went,
Brandished his blade, the Sarrazin upset;
The Adversaries of God his soul bare thence.
Next he has slain the duke Alphaien,
And sliced away Escababi his head,
And has unhorsed some seven Arabs else;
No good for those to go to war again.
Then said Rollanz: "My comrade shews anger,
So in my sight he makes me prize him well;
More dear by Charles for such blows are we held."
Aloud he's cried: "Strike on, the chevaliers!" AOI.
     


 
 

1565
 
 
 

1570
f.29r
 
 

1575

CXVIII 
D'altre part est un paien, Valdabrun: 
Celoi levat le rei Marsiliun, 
Sire est par mer de .IIII.C. drodmunz; 
N'i ad eschipre quis cleim se par loi nun. 
Jerusalem prist ja par traïsun, 
Si violat le temple Salomon, 
Le patriarche ocist devant les funz. 
Cil ot fiance del cunte Guenelon: 
Il li dunat s'espee e mil manguns. 
Siet el cheval qu'il cleimet Gramimund, 
Plus est isnels que nen est uns falcuns. 
Brochet le bien des aguz esperuns, 
Si vait ferir li riche duc Sansun, 
L'escut li freint e l'osberc li derumpt, 
El cors li met les pans del gunfanun, 
Pleine sa hanste l'abat mort des arçuns: 
«Ferez paien, car tres ben les veintrum!» 
Dient Franceis: «Deus quel doel de baron.!» AOI.		 CXVIII
From the other part a pagan Valdabron.
Warden he'd been to king Marsilion,
And lord, by sea, of four hundred dromonds;
No sailor was but called his name upon;
Jerusalem he'd taken by treason,
Violated the Temple of Salomon,
The Partiarch had slain before the fonts.
He'd pledged his oath by county Guenelon,
Gave him his sword, a thousand coins thereon.
He sate his horse, which he called Gramimond,
Never so swift flew in the air falcon;
He's pricked him well, with sharp spurs he had on,
Going to strike e'en that rich Duke, Sanson;
His shield has split, his hauberk has undone,
The ensign's folds have through his body gone,
Dead from the hilt out of his seat he's dropt:
"Pagans, strike on, for well we'll overcome!"
"God!" say the Franks, "Grief for a brave baron!" AOI.
     


1580
 
 
 

1585
 
 
 

1590

CXIX 
Li quens Rollant, quant il veit Sansun mort, 
Poez saveir que mult grant doel en out. 
Sun ceval brochet, si li curt ad esforz; 
Tient Durendal, qui plus valt que fin ór. 
Vait le ferir li bers, quanque il pout, 
Desur sun elme, ki gemmet fut ad or: 
Trenchet la teste e la bronie e le cors, 
La bone sele, ki est gemmet ad or, 
E al cheval parfundement le dos; 
Ambure ocit, ki quel blasme ne quil lot. 
Dient paien(t) [...]: «Cist colp nus est mult fort!» 
Respont Rollant: «Ne pois amer les voz; 
Devers vos est li orguilz e li torz.» AOI.		 CXIX
The count Rollanz, when Sansun dead he saw,
You may believe, great grief he had therefor.
His horse he spurs, gallops with great effort,
Wields Durendal, was worth fine gold and more,
Goes as he may to strike that baron bold
Above the helm, that was embossed with gold,
Slices the head, the sark, and all the corse,
The good saddle, that was embossed with gold,
And cuts deep through the backbone of his horse;
He's slain them both, blame him for that or laud.
The pagans say: "'Twas hard on us, that blow."
Answers Rollanz: "Nay, love you I can not,
For on your side is arrogance and wrong." AOI.
     


 

1595
 
 

f.29v
1600

CXX 
D'Affrike i ad un Affrican venut, 
Ço est Malquiant, le filz al rei Malcud. 
Si guarnement sunt tut a or batud; 
Cuntre le ciel sur tuz les altres luist. 
Siet el ceval qu'il cleimet Salt Perdut: 
Beste nen est ki poisset curre a lui. 
Il vait ferir Anseïs en l'escut: 
Tut li trenchat le vermeill e l'azur; 
De sun osberc li ad les pans rumput, 
El cors li met e le fer e le fust; 
Morz est li quens, de sun tens n'i ad plus. 
Dient Franceis: «Barun, tant mare fus!»		 CXX
Out of Affrike an Affrican was come,
'Twas Malquiant, the son of king Malcud;
With beaten gold was all his armour done,
Fore all men's else it shone beneath the sun.
He sate his horse, which he called Salt-Perdut,
Never so swift was any beast could run.
And Anseis upon the shield he struck,
The scarlat with the blue he sliced it up,
Of his hauberk he's torn the folds and cut,
The steel and stock has through his body thrust.
Dead is that count, he's no more time to run.
Then say the Franks:  "Baron, an evil luck!"
     

1605
 
 
 

1610		 CXXI 
Par le camp vait Turpin li arcevesque; 
Tel coronet ne chantat unches messe 
Ki de sun cors feïst [...] tantes proecces. 
Dist al paien: «Deus tut mal te tramette! 
Tel ad ocis dunt al coer me regrette.» 
Sun bon ceval i ad fait esdemetre, 
Si l'ad ferut sur l'escut de Tulette, 
Que mort l'abat desur le herbe verte.		 CXXI
Swift through the field Turpin the Archbishop passed;
Such shaven-crown has never else sung Mass
Who with his limbs such prowess might compass;
To th'pagan said  "God send thee all that's bad!
One thou hast slain for whom my heart is sad."
So his good horse forth at his bidding ran,
He's struck him then on his shield Toledan,
Until he flings him dead on the green grass.
     


 

1615
 
 
 

1620
 
 
 

1625

f.30r

CXXII 
De l'altre part est un paien, Grandonies, 
Filz Capuel, le rei de Capadoce(neez). 
Siet el cheval que il cleimet Marmorie, 
Plus est isnels que n'est oisel ki volet; 
Laschet la resne, des esperuns le brochet, 
Si vait ferir Gerin par sa grant force. 
L'escut vermeill li freint, de col li portet; 
Aprof li ad sa bronie desclose, 
El cors li met tute l'enseingne bloie, 
Que mort l'abat en une halte roche. 
Sun cumpaignun Gerers ocit uncore 
E Berenger e Guiun de Seint Antonie; 
Puis vait ferir un riche duc Austorje, 
Ki tint Valeri e envers sur le Rosne. 
Il l'abat mort; paien en unt grant joie. 
Dient Franceis: «Mult decheent li nostre!»		 CXXII
From the other part was a pagan Grandones,
Son of Capuel, the king of Capadoce.
He sate his horse, the which he called Marmore,
Never so swift was any bird in course;
He's loosed the reins, and spurring on that horse
He's gone to strike Gerin with all his force;
The scarlat shield from's neck he's broken off,
And all his sark thereafter has he torn,
The ensign blue clean through his body's gone,
Until he flings him dead, on a high rock;
His companion Gerer he's slain also,
And Berenger, and Guiun of Santone;
Next a rich duke he's gone to strike, Austore,
That held Valence and the Honour of the Rhone;
He's flung him dead; great joy the pagans shew.
Then say the Franks: "Of ours how many fall."
     
1630
 
 
 

1635		 CXXIII 
[L]i quens Rollant tint s'espee sanglente. 
Ben ad oït que Franceis se dementent; 
Si grant doel ad que par mi quiet fendre; 
Dist al paien: «Deus tut mal te consente! 
Tel as ocis que mult cher te quid vendre!» 
Sun ceval brochet, ki oït del cuntence. 
Ki quel cumpert, venuz en sunt ensemble.		 CXXIII
The count Rollanz, his sword with blood is stained,
Well has he heard what way the Franks complained;
Such grief he has, his heart would split in twain:
To the pagan says: "God send thee every shame!
One hast thou slain that dearly thou'lt repay."
He spurs his horse, that on with speed doth strain;
Which should forfeit, they both together came.
     


 
 
 

1640
 
 
 

1645
 
 
 

1650

CXXIV 
Grandonie fut e prozdom e vaillant 
E vertuus e vassal cumbatant. 
Enmi sa veie ad encuntret Rollant. 
Enceis nel vit, sil recunut veirement 
Al fier visage e al cors qu'il out gent 
E al reguart e al contenement: 
Ne poet muer qu'il ne s'en espoent, 
Fuïr s'en voel, mais ne li valt nient: 
Li quens le fiert tant vertuusement 
Tresqu'al nasel tut le elme li fent, 
Trenchet le nes e la buche e les denz, 
Trestut le cors e l'osberc jazerenc 
De l'oree sele (se)[les] dous alves d'argent 
E al ceval le dos parfundement; 
Ambure ocist seinz nul recoevrement, 
E cil d'Espaigne s'en cleiment tuit dolent. 
Dient Franceis: «Ben fiert nostre guarent!»		 CXXIV
Grandonie was both proof and valiant,
And virtuous, a vassal combatant.
Upon the way there, he has met Rollant;
He'd never seen, yet knew him at a glance,
By the proud face and those fine limbs he had,
By his regard, and by his contenance;
He could not help but he grew faint thereat,
He would escape, nothing avail he can.
Struck him the count, with so great virtue, that
To the nose-plate he's all the helmet cracked,
Sliced through the nose and mouth and teeth he has,
Hauberk close-mailed, and all the whole carcass,
Saddle of gold, with plates of silver flanked,
And of his horse has deeply scarred the back;
He's slain them both, they'll make no more attack:
The Spanish men in sorrow cry, "Alack!"
Then say the Franks: "He strikes well, our warrant."
     


 

f.30v
 
 
 

1660

CXXV 
La bataille est e merveillose e grant. 
Franceis i ferent des espiez brunisant. 
La veïssez si grant dulor de gent, 
Tant hume mort e nasfret e sanglent! 
L'un gist sur l'altre e envers e adenz. 
Li Sarrazin nel poent susfrir tant: 
Voelent u nun, si guerpissent le camp. 
Par vive force les encacerent Franc. AOI.		 CXXV
Marvellous is the battle now and grand,
The Franks there strike, their good brown spears in hand.
Then had you seen such sorrowing of clans,
So many a slain, shattered and bleeding man!
Biting the earth, or piled there on their backs!
The Sarrazins cannot such loss withstand.
Will they or nill, from off the field draw back;
By lively force chase them away the Franks. AOI.
     


 
 
 

1665
 
 
 

1670

CXXVI 
La (la) b[at]aille est m[erv]eilluse e hastive. 
Franceis i ferent par vigur e par ire, 
Tren[chen]t cez poinz, cez costez, cez eschines, 
Cez vestemenz entresque as chars vives. 
Sur l'erbe verte li cler sancs s'en afilet.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
«Tere Major, Mahummet te maldie! 
Sur tute gent est la tue hardie.» 
Cel nen i ad ki ne criet: «Marsilie! 
Cevalche, rei! Bosuign avum d'aïe!»		 CXXVI
Marvellous is the battle in its speed,
The Franks there strike with vigour and with heat,
Cutting through wrists and ribs and chines in-deed,
Through garments to the lively flesh beneath;
On the green grass the clear blood runs in streams.
The pagans say: "No more we'll suffer, we.
Terra Major, Mahummet's curse on thee!
Beyond all men thy people are hardy!"
There was not one but cried then: "Marsilie,
Canter, O king, thy succour now we need!"
     


 
 
 

1675
 
 
 

1680
 
 

f.31r
1685
 
 
 

1690

CXXVII 
Li quens Rollant apelet Oliver: 
«Sire cumpaign, sel volez otrier, 
Li arcevesque est mult bon chevaler, 
Nen ad meillor en tere ne suz cel; 
Ben set ferir e de lance e d'espiet.» 
Respunt li quens: «Kar li aluns aider!» 
A icest mot l'unt Francs recumencet. 
Dur sunt li colps e li caples est grefs; 
Mu(n)lt grant dulor i ad de chrestiens. 
Ki puis veïst Rollant e Oliver 
De lur espees e ferir e capler! 
Li arcevesque i fiert de sun espiet, 
Cels qu'il unt mort, ben les poet hom preiser; 
Il est escrit es cartres e es brefs, 
Ço dit la Geste, plus de .IIII. milliers. 
As quatre [es]turs lor est avenut ben; 
Li quint apres lor est pesant e gref. 
Tuz sunt ocis cist Franceis chevalers, 
Ne mes seisante, que Deus i ad esparniez: 
Einz que il moergent, se vendrunt mult cher.		 CXXVII
The count Rollanz calls upon Oliver:
"Sir companion, witness you'll freely bear,
The Archbishop is a right good chevalier,
None better is neath Heaven anywhere;
Well can he strike with lance and well with spear."
Answers that count: "Support to him we'll bear!"
Upon that word the Franks again make yare;
Hard are the blows, slaughter and suffering there,
For Christians too, most bitter grief and care.
Who could had seen Rollanz and Oliver
With their good swords to strike and to slaughter!
And the Archbishop lays on there with his spear.
Those that are dead, men well may hold them dear.
In charters and in briefs is written clear,
Four thousand fell, and more, the tales declare.
Gainst four assaults easily did they fare,
But then the fifth brought heavy griefs to bear.
They all are slain, those Frankish chevaliers;
Only three-score, whom God was pleased to spare,
Before these die, they'll sell them very dear. 
     


 
 
 

1695
 
 
 

1700

CXXVIII 
Li quens Rollant des soens i veit grant perte; AOI. 
Sun cumpaignun Oliver en apelet: 
«Bel sire, chers cumpainz, pur Deu, que vos enhaitet? 
Tanz bons vassals veez gesir par tere! 
Pleindre poüms France dulce, la bele: 
De tels barons cum or remeint deserte! 
E! reis, amis, que vos ici nen estes? 
Oliver, frere, cumment le purrum nus faire? 
Cum faitement li manderum nuveles?» 
Dist Oliver: «Jo nel sai cument quere. 
Mielz voeill murir que hunte nus seit retraite.» AOI.		 CXXVIII
The count Rollant great loss of his men sees,
His companion Olivier calls, and speaks:
"Sir and comrade, in God's Name, That you keeps,
Such good vassals you see lie here in heaps;
For France the Douce, fair country, may we weep,
Of such barons long desolate she'll be.
Ah!  King and friend, wherefore are you not here?
How, Oliver, brother, can we achieve?
And by what means our news to him repeat?"
Says Oliver: "I know not how to seek;
Rather I'ld die than shame come of this feat." AOI.
     


 
 

1705
 
 
 

1710

f.31v

CXXIX 
Ço dist Rollant: «Cornerai l'olifant, 
Si l'orrat Carles, ki est as porz passant. 
Jo vos plevis ja returnerunt Franc.» 
Dist Oliver: «Vergoigne sereit grant 
E reprover a trestuz voz parenz; 
Iceste hunte dureit al lur vivant! 
Quant jel vos dis, n'en feïstes nient;&nb