Cuento Alemán
A la hora en que el gato salta sobre el tocino,
en las vidrieras arde un rayo de oro fino
y el Hombre de la Luna comienza su destino,
en todas las botellas se oyó cantar el vino.
Cantaba entre el bochorno de las obesas pipas
que roncan y que sueñan que les saca las tripas
el nocharniego pinche de las regias cocinas,
terror de las doncellas y de las golosinas.
Cantaba como canta el viento en las veletas,
mientras los zafios duermen y velan los poetas.
En sueños, la princesa, que lo oye cantar,
en sueños se entregaba al gusto de bailar,
mientras la dueña, gente de condición vulgar,
se emborrachaba en sueños, que así suele pasar.
El rey, como discreto, como persona honrada,
el rey ... pues nada sueña porque no escucha nada.
El rey tiene por barbas dorado vellocino,
cual si las empapara en el dorado vino,
y es su consuelo único y su mejor consejo
tomar a cada rato un trago de lo añejo.
Roba el tocino el gato. Ya trepa hacia la luna
bebiendo las hebrillas de luz una por una:
volar es cosa propia de la raza gatuna,
si ayuda el plenilunio y ayuda la fortuna.
En tanto, el regio parque se embriagaba de luna,
y la luna se daba baños en la laguna.
- Ay! viejo duendecito, prenda usía su vela!
Diga: aquello que sube ¿es un gato que vuela?
- ¡Ay, viejecita duende! ¿Para qué me desvela?
¿No sabe que es el Diablo que nos ronda y nos vela?
¡Bien haya el duendecito que todo lo sabía!
A cada primavera, la barba le crecía.
Desnuda la mañana su dorado puñal
y canta el gallo de oro que hay en la catedral.
Despierta la princesa rendida de bailar;
la dueña, de beber; la dueña, de roncar.
El rey, como discreto, como persona honrada,
el rey ... pues nada sabe porque no sabe nada.
La gente que a la plaza sale a ver el reló
cuenta que el Holandés de las Botas pasó
de noche por el pueblo, vaciando las botellas,
hundiendo las tinajas y empreñando doncellas,
y, como de costumbre, sopeaba su vino
con su poco de queso, de lardo y de tocino.
La princesa pariera un feísimo gato;
la dueña confesara que se distrajo un rato;
y el rey, como magnánimo, el rey, como sensato,
iba desayunándose hasta limpiar el plato,
y sin decir palabra gustaba del guisote,
sorbía su cerveza, se chupaba el bigote;
si bien no cabe duda que, para su capote,
el rey ... nada pensaba, aunque nada se note.
j Así tengáis salud y así tengáis fortuna,
guardad a vuestras hijas del Hombre de la Luna!
* * * * * *
Hicieron estos versos cuatro monjes goliardos,
de vidas vagabundas si de familias ricas,
discípulos de Erígenas y alumnos de Abelardos
- aunque no eran mancos, ni tuertos y ni cojos -,
que, de beber, tenían volumen de barricas
y cuatro caras como cuatro soles muy rojos.
German Tale
It was the hour the cat performs its bacon-grabbing spring,
When across every window-pane fine gold is glittering,
The hour the Magus of the Moon goes out adventuring:
In every bottle, jug and flask, the wine was heard to sing.
It sang among the flushes of the ample-bellied butts,
That belch, and snore, and dream of being emptied of their guts
By the nocturnal Scullion of the kitchens of the king,
The dread of every kitchen-maid and dainty little thing.
It sang the way the wild wind sings in the banners at the gate,
While yokels take their beauty-sleep, and poets watch and wait.
All in her dreams the princess heard the wine’s alluring chants;
All in her dreams she yielded to the pleasures of the dance.
She had a base-born chaperone, of very low degree,
Who dreamed – it’s fairly normal – she was on a drunken spree.
The king’s a man of honour, a discreet and upright king,
The king – he dreams of nothing, for he doesn’t hear a thing.
The king had grown a golden fleece that hung beneath his chin:
Perhaps he kept a golden wine to marinade it in.
This was his wisest counsel, this consoled him last and first:
To swig whenever possible a bottle of the worst.
The cat has pinched the bacon! and towards the moon it’s gone,
Soars up, and drinks the little wisps of moonbeam, one by one:
For flying is a special skill of all the feline band,
Provided that good fortune and the full moon lend a hand.
The royal park was all the while enraptured with the moon,
Who took her time, enjoyed herself, and bathed in the lagoon.
“Oho, my little pixie-man! Be waking, sir, stand by!
Tell me, is that a flying cat that soars across the sky?”
“Oho, my little elf, and would you rouse me? Can’t you tell,
It’s the Devil haunts and harries us, the Devil come from hell.”
“Protect us, little pixie-man!” He knew the whole affair;
His beard grew long, and longer still, when spring was in the air.
The daybreak from her scabbard drew her golden snickersnee;
Loud crowed the golden cockerel in the Minster sacristy.
The princess woke and rubbed her eyes, worn out from her contortions;
The chaperone, from bibulous and stertorous exertions.
The king’s a man of honour, a discreet and upright king,
The king – the king knows nothing, for he doesn’t know a thing.
The folk who saunter in the Square to view the clock, they say
It was the Flying-Dutchman-Puss-in-Boots who passed this way.
He went about the town at night, and drained the bottles dry,
He emptied all the demijohns, and made the maidens cry;
And, following the custom, in the tavern sat a-sipping
Of his wine, with modest quantities of bacon, cheese and dripping.
The princess was delivered of a very ugly cat;
The chaperone was negligent, she took the blame for that;
The king, a noble-hearted and sagacious man of state,
Continued with his breakfast and completely cleared his plate;
He supped his mild and bitter ale, and sucked his whiskered septum,
And ate his meal in silence, not a single word escaped him.
And there’s no doubt about it, that between himself and he,
The king had not one thought at all! No comment – let it be.
Here’s wishing you the best of health, the greatest good fortune,
And keep your daughters locked away from the Magus of the Moon!
* * * * * * * *
Four monks composed these verses and they all were Goliards,
They lived the life of vagrants, though their families were wealthy,
Disciples of John Duns’s, acolytes of Abelard’s
(Though none of them was maimed, or squinty-eyed, or that unhealthy);
They had a gross of drinking-vats, a cubic chain of tuns,
And four tomato faces like a clutch of scarlet suns.