by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)
Translation © by Pierre Mathé

Lord Gregory
Language: Scottish (Scots) 
Our translations:  FRE
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
  And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower,
  Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',
  And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,
  If love it may na be.
 
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove
  By bonie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin love
  I lang, lang had denied.
How aften didst thou pledge and vow
  Thou wad for aye be mine!
And my fond heart, itsel' sae true,
  It ne'er mistrusted thine.
 
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,
  And flinty is thy breast:
Thou bolt of Heaven that flashest by,
  O, wilt thou bring me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,
  Your willing victim see;
But spare and pardon my fause Love,
  His wrangs to Heaven and me.

Confirmed with Robert Burns, The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, Humphrey Milford, Oxford University Press, 1919, page 379.


Text Authorship:

Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):

    [ None yet in the database ]

Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:

  • Also set in German (Deutsch), a translation by Anonymous/Unidentified Artist , "Lord Gregor" ; composed by Karl Heinrich Carsten Reinecke.

Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • CZE Czech (Čeština) (Josef Václav Sládek) , "Lord Gregory"
  • FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Lord Gregory ; une ballade", copyright © 2019, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Research team for this page: Emily Ezust [Administrator] , Pierre Mathé [Guest Editor]

This text was added to the website: 2008-11-20
Line count: 24
Word count: 140

Lord Gregory ; une ballade
Language: French (Français)  after the Scottish (Scots) 
Ô sombre, sombre est cette heure de minuit,
   Et la tempête hurle fort ;
Une pitoyable vagabonde cherche ta tour,
    Lord Gregory, ouvre ta porte.

Une exilée de la demeure de mon père,
    Et tout ça par amour pour toi ;
Montre-moi au moins quelque pitié,
    Si ce ne peut être de l'amour.

Lord Gregory ne te rappelle-tu pas le bosquet
    Au bord de la belle Irwine,
Où la première fois je reconnus cet amour virginal
    Que longtemps, longtemps j'avais dénié.

Combien souvent avais-tu promis et juré
    Que tu serais à moi pour toujours !
Et mon tendre cœur, lui même si fidèle,
    N'a jamais trahi le tien.

Ton cœur est dur, Lord Gregory,
    Et ton sein de pierre :
Toi, éclair du ciel qui brille près de moi,
    Ô, voudras-tu m'apporter le repos !

Vous tonnerres rassemblés là-haut,
    Voyez votre victime soumise ;
Mais épargnez mon perfide amant et pardonnez-lui
    Ses fautes, envers le ciel et envers moi.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from Scottish (Scots) to French (Français) copyright © 2019 by Pierre Mathé, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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This text was added to the website: 2019-04-04
Line count: 24
Word count: 153