by
Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856)
Die Minnesänger
Language: German (Deutsch)
Available translation(s): CAT DUT ENG FRE POR
Zu dem Wettgesange schreiten
Minnesänger jetzt herbei;
Ei, das gibt ein seltsam Streiten,
Ein gar seltsames Turnei!
Phantasie, die schäumend wilde,
Ist des Minnesängers Pferd,
Und die Kunst dient ihm zum Schilde,
Und das Wort, das ist sein Schwert.
Hübsche Damen schauen munter
Vom beteppichten Balkon,
Doch die rechte ist nicht drunter
Mit der rechten Lorbeerkron'.
Andre Leute, wenn sie springen
In die Schranken, sind gesund;
Doch wir Minnesänger bringen
Dort schon mit die Todeswund'.
Und wem dort am besten dringet
Liederblut aus Herzensgrund,
Der ist Sieger, der erringet
Bestes Lob aus schönstem Mund.
R. Schumann sets stanzas 1-4
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):
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CAT Catalan (Català) (Salvador Pila) , "Els trobadors", copyright © 2021, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- DUT Dutch (Nederlands) [singable] (Lau Kanen) , "De minnezangers", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ENG English (Ryan Bede) , "The Minne-singers", copyright © 2024, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Les ménestrels", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- POR Portuguese (Português) (Margarida Moreno) , "Os trovadores", copyright © 2011, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 94
Os trovadores
Language: Portuguese (Português) after the German (Deutsch)
Cantando ao desafio
Chegam agora os trovadores;
Ai, isto é uma luta estranha,
Um torneio mesmo estranho!
Fantasia, espuma selvagem,
É o cavalo do trovador,
E a arte serve-lhe de emblema,
E a palavra é a sua espada.
Lindas damas olham alegres
Da varanda atapetada,
Mas a certa não está entre elas
Com a coroa de louros certa.
Outras pessoas, quando saltam,
Nos limites, são saudáveis;
Mas nós, trovadores, trazemos
Ali já a ferida de morte.
Cantando ao desafio
Chegam agora os trovadores;
Ai, isto dá uma luta estranha,
Um torneio mesmo estranho!
Text Authorship:
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2011-07-16
Line count: 20
Word count: 93