LL-L "Holidays" 2005.03.07 (10) [E]

[Lowlands-L]

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L O W L A N D S - L * 07.MAR.2005 (10) * ISSN 189-5582 * LCSN 96-4226
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A=Afrikaans Ap=Appalachian B=Brabantish D=Dutch E=English F=Frisian
L=Limburgish LS=Lowlands Saxon (Low German) N=Northumbrian
S=Scots Sh=Shetlandic V=(West)Flemish Z=Zeelandic (Zeêuws)
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From:  R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Holidays

Dear Lowlanders,

Today I specifically mentioned women twice:

Under "Anniversary":

> Unfortunately, so far there is only under ten percent female
> participation.
> How about doing something for gender balance here, precious Lowlands
> Sisters?

Under "History" about witch trials:

> I wonder why not more people treat it with the seriousness I
> personally believe it deserves, given that we are dealing with one of the
> most serious and most horrendous holocausts in Western history, one of
> Europe's darkest chapters, that claimed predominantly women as victims.

I did not consciously make the connection then, but then tomorrow's date
rang a bell (though in the United States you have to go out of your way to
hear it).

I can only really speak for myself, but I guess many of my Lowlands brothers
stand behind me when I wish all of you women on our List all the very best
on International Women's Day, March 8, 2005, and when I tell you that I
appreciate, honor and, yes, love you all.

Perhaps we should make tomorrow (already today for many of you) a special
day on which we try to focus on matters concerning girls and women.  Some
literature bits would be nice, or feminine treatment in grammar, and
anything of the sort.  No, it doesn't all have to be serious.

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron

P.S.: Below is my modest tribute to the women in our lives.

***

Scots (from the Industrial Revolution in cotton mills):

   Oh, dear me, the mill's gaen fast,
   The puir wee shifters* canna get a rest.
   Shiftin' bobbins, coorse and fine,
   They fairly mak' ye work for your ten and nine.
   Oh, dear me, I wish the day was done,
   Rinnin' up and doon the Pass is no' nae fun;
   Shiftin', piecin', spinnin' warp, weft and twine,
   Tae feed and cled my bairnie affen ten and nine.
   Oh, dear me, the warld's ill divided,
   Them that work the hardest are aye wi' least provided,
   But I maun bide contented, dark days or fine,
   There's no much pleasure living affen ten and nine.
___
* elsewhere "puir wee bairnies" 'poor little kids"

***

Low Saxon (Low German) by Klaus Groth (1819-1899, Germany):

   De junge Wetfru
   Wenn Abends roth de Wulken treckt,
   So denk ik och! an di!
   So trock verbi dat ganze Heer,
   Un du weerst mit derbi.
   Wenn ut de Böm de Blœder fallt,
   So denk ik glik an di:
   So full so menni brawe Jung,
   Un du weerst mit derbi.
   Denn sett ik mi so truri hin
   Un denk so vel an di.
   Ik et alleen min Abendbrot –
   Un du büst nich derbi.

My translation (http://www.geocities.com/grothwarken/):

   The Young Widow
   When close to dusk red clouds go by,
   Oh, how I think of you!
   That's how the army once went by.
   And you? You were there too.
   When leaves fall from the autumn trees,
   That's when I think of you.
   Many a good lad fell like that.
   And you? You've fallen too.
   And then I sit me down all sad
   And think so much of you.
   I have my supper all alone ...
   I have it without you.

***

Low Saxon (Low German) by Klaus Groth (1819-1899, Germany):

   Dat stœhnt int Moor

   Wat stœhnt der Abends rut ut Moor?
   Dat is de Wind in Reth un Rohr.
   Och ne, dat is keen Reth un Wind,
   Dar stœhnt en Fru, dar weent en Kind!

   Dat wimmert Abends krank un swach,
   Dat snuckert lud de ganze Nacht,
   Dat flücht sik vœr de Morgensünn
   As Newel in de deepsten Grünn'.

   Doch wenn de Scheper Middags slöppt,
   So hört he, wa dat lisen röppt,
   So deep, so dump, so swack un leeg,
   As gung der nerrn en Krankenweeg.

   Dat is en Seel, de hett keen Rau,
   De flücht sik as de Morgendau,
   Dat is en Seel, de hett keen Fred,
   De singt un singt en Wegenleed.

   Un is dat Moor alleen un kahl,
   Un jagt de Blœd vunt Holt hendal,
   Denn flüggt se mit in Strom un Larm,
   En bleke Diern, er Kind in Arm.

   Op Dubenheid dar is en Moor,
   Dar stat de Wicheln kahl un sor.
   In Dubenheid dar is en Lunk,
   Doch schriggt der nu ni Pock noch Unk.

   Dat witte Wullgras steit der rund,
   Dar is en Dœpel sünner Grund,
   Dat Water sipert grön un trag'
   Un kumt bi Braken eerst to Dag'.

   Dat is de Kul, dar smitt se't rin,
   Dat is de Platz, dar mutt se hin,
   Dar steit un ritt se sik de Haar
   Un is verswunn' bet tokum Jahr.

   De Wachtel röppt, de Harst de kumt,
   De Kukuk is al lang verstummt –
   Nu hör! wa stœhn dat lud un swar!
   Bald ward dat still bet tokum Jahr.

My translation (http://www.geocities.com/grothwarken/):

   Moaning on the Moor

   What's moaning on the moor at night?
   It's rustling reeds, the wind in flight.
   Oh, no, it's no reeds, no wind that sighs
   But a woman's moans, a child that cries!

   There's whimpering around twilight
   And noisy sobs throughout the night.
   It flees at sunrise like a veil
   Of mist descending in a dale.

   But when the shepherd naps by day
   He hears soft cries not far away
   So deeply, weakly through the still
   As if from someone deadly ill.

   A restless soul soon out of sight,
   It fades like dew come morning light,
   A soul that finds no peace, that sighs
   And sings and sings its lullabies.

   When life deserts the bare, bleak fen
   And woods shed all their leaves again
   She, too, leaves with the autumn wild—
   A pale lass, in her arms her child.

   At Dove Heath there is swampy ground
   With bare, dead willows all around.
   At Dove Heath there's a slough, a bog,
   Yet you hear neither toad nor frog.

   White cotton grass grows all around
   A bottomless pond in dipping ground
   Where water seeps up, oozing and green,
   That just in bareness can be seen.

   That's where she once had tossed her child,
   The place that summons her back through the wild,
   Where she'll stand, tear her hair, then disappear,
   Not to return before next year.

   When autumn comes you hear quails calling.
   Cuckoo's long gone when leaves are falling.
   Listen! Those loud moans! Can't you hear?
   Soon they will stop until next year.

***

Low Saxon by Waltrud Bruhn (1936-1999):

   April, Oktober – Maand, eendoont
                  Prato della Valle in Padua

   Langs de Straat.
   Miteens
   op den Weg
   stuukbeent anholln
   bi en wildfrömde Fru
   un ehrn Kinnerwagen.
   Dar dat Lüttje sehn
   un begriepen,
   dat du
   för alle Tiet
   lerrig büst.
   Un't seert dwars
   vun'n Hals an
   bet nah dat Gras
   twüschen dien Töhn.

My translation (from an upcoming anthology):

   April, October ... month immaterial
                  Prato della Valle in Padua

   Down the street.
   Suddenly
   along the way
   abruptly stopping
   next to a complete stranger
   and her baby carriage.
   Looking at the baby there
   and realizing
   that you'll
   be empty
   for all times.
   And it hurts
   from your throat
   right down to the grass
   between your toes.

***

Low Saxon by Jannie Boerema (Netherlands):


   Papaarse rooie jurk

   Ik wil wel
   stof zoegen
   en bedden opmaoken
   en sokken wasken
   en jenever inschenken
   en pudding koken
   en de kat kammen
   en laank waachten
   en heksen
   en eier
   en mien ogen
   blauw vaarven
   op goeie vrijdag

   as hij dan maor
   as hij dan maor
   mien
   papaarse rooie jurk
   oet trekt

My translation (from an upcoming anthology):

   Papal red robe

   Sure I will
   look for fabrics
   and make beds
   and wash socks
   and serve liquor
   and cook pudding
   and comb the cat
   and wait a long time
   and enchant
   and dye blue
   some eggs
   and my eyes
   on Good Friday

   if only he'd then
   if only he'd then
   take off
   my
   papal red robe

***

Middle English (William Dunbar, c1460-c1513):

   In Praise of Women

   Now of wemen this I say for me,
   Of erthly thingis nane may bettir be.
   Thay suld haif wirschep and grit honoring
   Of men aboif all uthir erthly thing.
   Rycht grit dishonour upoun himself he takkis [takes]
   In word or deid [deed] quhaevir [whoever] wemen lakkis [dispises],
   Sen [since] that of wemen cumin [come = born] all ar we;
   Wemen ar wemen and sa will end and de [die].
   Wo wirth the fruct wald put the tre to nocht [nothing],
   And wo wirth him rycht so that sayis ocht [anything]
   Of womanheid that may be ony lak,
   Or sic [such] grit [great] schame upone him for to tak.
   Thay us consaif with pane, and be thame fed
   Within thair breistis thair we be boun to bed;
   Grit pane and wo and murnyng mervellus
   Into thair birth thay suffir sair for us;
   Than meit [food] and drynk to feid [feed] us get we nane [none]
   Bot that we sowk [suck] out of thair breistis bane [bone].
   Thay ar the confort that we all haif heir [have here] -
   Thair may no man be till us half so deir;
   Thay ar our verry nest of nurissing.
   In lak of thame quha [who] can say ony thing,
   That fowll [bird] his nest he fylis [fouls], and for thy [therefore]
   Exylit [exiled] he suld be of all gud cumpany;
   Thair suld na wyis [wise] man gif audience
   To sic ane [such a one] without intelligence.
   Chryst to His fader He had nocht ane [not a single] man;
   Se quhat [what] wirschep wemen suld haif than.
   That Sone is Lord, that Sone is King of Kingis,
   In Hevin and erth His majestie ay ringis.
   Sen scho hes borne Him in hir halines [holiness],
   And He is well and grund [foundation] of all gudnes,
   All wemen of us suld haif honoring,
   Service and luve, aboif [above] all uthir [other] thing.



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