THE NIGHTINGALE

by: Gil Vicente (c. 1470 - c. 1536)

HE rose looks out in the valley

And thither will I go!

To the rosy vale where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

 

The virgin is on the river-side

Culling the lemons pale;

Thither,--yes! thither will I go

To the rosy vale where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

 

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled,

'Tis for her lover all,

Thither,--yes! thither will I go

To the rosy vale where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

 

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,

She has placed the lemons pale;

Thither,--yes! thither will I go

To the rosy vale where the nightingale

Sings his song of woe.

--Translated by John Bowring

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