The book Folk Songs of Many Peoples with English Versions by American Poets contains three songs translated into English by Lebanese writer and poet Gibran Kahlil Gibran (Ǧubrān Ḫalīl Ǧubrān, 1883-1931). The book (NY/1922) has a special section dedicated to Syria and includes six texts translated from Arabic into English. Besides the three by Gibran, it contains translated songs by another Lebanese icon: Ameen Rihani (Amīn Fāris al-Rīḥānī, 1876-1940),
By Francesco Medici
Folk songs are vital to music because they provide a short history of the people involved in the music. They also often pass essential information from generation to generation and capture a specific moment in time. They tell stories of lives forgotten or on the verge of disappearing. Almost everyone can relate to a folk song.
Folk Songs of Many Peoples.. is full of lyrics and musical scores. The original texts are provided with translations of the Syrian/Lebanese folk songs arranged by the Cypriot-born American composer, conductor, and pianist of Lebanese origin Anis Fuleihan (Anīs Fulayḥān, 1900-1970).
The songs translated by Rihani are al-Dabkah, with the title Across The Bridge, O Come, Taftā Hindī (Indian Taffeta), and Marmar Zamānī, with the title My Day is Bitter. Those translated by Gibran are Mūlayyā, with the title O Mother Mine; Sāla dam‘aī, with the title I Wandered Among the Mountains; and Mīǧānā, with the title Three Maiden Lovers. All these six translations were individually republished five years later in «The Syrian World».
Below are the transcriptions of the three of Gibran’s texts.
O Mother Mine (Moulaya)
O mother mine, spread me the silken sheet,
And let me lie down and cover myself with rose leaves.
For love-sick am I, and flames of love consume me.
And if I die tomorrow, Mother, I pray you
Call around me, my comrades, the daughters of love,
And over my bier, let them sing me my dirge.
O mother mine, yesterday our secret was our own;
Today, who does not know it?
My love has gone afar,
And now I would write to him.
If you deny me the paper, I’ll write on wings of birds;
And if ink you deny me, I’ll write with my heart’s blood!
O you, who are climbing the mountain,
A drink will you not give me from the hollow of your hand?
In truth, I am not thirsty,
But I would have a word with you;
And it may be the wind will lift your scarf
And let me look full at your face!
(download notes: Part I, Part II)
I Wandered Among the Mountains
I wandered among the mountains, searching for my lark,
And I found him, but alas! In another maiden’s cage.
With the tinkling of gold, I sought to lure him into my cage;
But she sang and said, ‘Go your way. Your day is forever by’.
They said to me, ‘Your love is ill and wasted, and tomorrow he will die’.
Then, to a carpenter, I went and ordered a coffin
Whose lock is of gold and whose key of a ruby carved;
And tomorrow, how astonished the kingdom will be,
When they behold two youths in but a single coffin!
My love now wears a black shirt woven of hair.
Like thorns, it wounds his skin.
Luckless may the weaver be;
And restless, the dyer!
Some day, I shall seek the head of the monastery
And plead for my love;
Then I shall tell him that one glimpse of love
It is holier than all monasteries.
Who among you has not loved?
In what heart does God not walk?
See how close are the pomegranate seeds;
And behold the stars, how near and loving!
Be quiet, my heart, and weep no more.
He has forgotten you;
Forget him, too. But should you forget him,
Then will I tear you out of my bosom!
O dark one, how often have I been blamed for your sake;
And each time I am blamed, my love grows stronger.
You are the rose, and I, the dew that refreshes you;
You are the silken garments, and I, the wind that moves you;
You are the Pleiades, and I, Orion, following you;
You are the moon, and I, the stars that watch over you.
(download music notes)
Three Maiden Lovers
Three maiden lovers stood by the wine press.
One longed silently for her love, who was distant.
The second one said, ‘All will be well’.
‘Ah, well’, said the third, ‘but is not love God?’.
Yester-eve she was reaping with me in the corn,
And in her hair, the wind played gaily.
O ye poor, pitiful mate-less things!
Your bread is but thistles and sour grapes, your wine!
My love took her basket to gather the herbs,
And all through the village, she sought her mate for a companion;
And finding him not, she threw down her basket and said,
‘Burn thou up and let the flame rise, a sacrifice to God!’.
* This article is based on an excerpt from the paper: Francesco Medici, ‘Muhāǧirūn wa Mutarǧimūn: Early Arab Authors of the Diaspora as Translators and Self-Translators’, «Letters from Byblos», No. 28, Byblos: 2024, pp. 13-57.
(Part I, part II)
