Ja Nuns Hons Pris - French and Occitan Medieval Song

Music* and lyrics by Richard the Lionheart, vocals & arrangement by Farya Faraji. Unlike most performances, I chose to sing both the French and Occitan lyrics, as Richard wrote in both. *Though the attribution of the poem to Richard seems to be certain, I couldn’t find any comprehensive sources giving any clear evidence that he also wrote the melody; it may be a case of a melody written by someone else at a later point based on the text, although the other alternative is just as possible. He wrote the song after being imprisoned in 1192 by Leopold of Austria, who accused him of arranging the murder of his cousin Conrad of Montferrat. Richard was kept prisoner at Dürnstein Castle, and there, he wrote this, addressed to his half-sister Marie, to express the feeling that his people had abandoned him. Richard was finally released two years later. The arrangement is meant to be historically accurate, and consists of a simple heterophonic arrangement which involves slight counterpoint by the end; the latter being a technique that would gradually gain precedence in Western European music from the tentative first forms of parallel harmony called Organum; something that we can safely assume would have spilled over into instrumentation and not only the vocals. The vocals follow a method high melismatic ornamentation with a high degree of microtonal inflection, something well attested in the Middle-Ages, see this video for more info: Take the pronunciation with a grain of salt, it does respect the generally Romance-like phonology French used to have, but I based myself off of other recordings, which may be a case of the blind leading the blind, and some of the exact aspects may not be accurate. The instrumentation consists of a rebec lyra, a gittern, a lute, and drums. Old French lyrics: Ja nuns hons pris ne dira sa raison A droitement, se dolantement non: Mais par esfort puet il faire chançon. Mout ai amis, mais povre sunt li don. Honte i avront, se por ma reançon Sui ça deus yvers pris. Ce sevent bien mi home e mi baron, Ynglois, Normanz, Poitevin et Gascon Que je n’ai nul si povre compaignon Que je lessaisse, por avoir, en prison. Je nou di mie por nule rentrançon, Car encor sui pris. Or sai je bien de voir, certeinnement, Que je ne pris ne ami, ne parent, Quant on me faut por or ne por argent. Mout m’est de moi, mès plus m’est de ma gent; Qu’après ma mort avront reprochement, Se longuement sui pris. N’est pas mervoille se j’ai le cuer dolant, Quant mes sires mest ma terre en torment. S’il li membrast de nostre soirement Que nos feïsmes andui communement, Je sai de voir que ja trop longuement Ne seroie ça pris. Occitan lyrics: Ja nuls om pres non dira sa razon Adrechament si com om dolens non Mas per conort deu om faire canson Pro n’ai d’amis mas paure son li don Anta lur es si per ma rezenson So çai dos ivers pres Or sapchon ben miei om et miei baron Angles norman peitavin et gascon Qu’ieu non ai ja si paure companhon Qu’ieu laissasse per aver en preison Non o dic mia per nula retraison Mas anquar soi ie pres Car sai eu ben per ver certanament Qu’om mort ni pres n’a amic ni parent E si’m laissan per aur ni per argent Mal m’es per mi mas pieg m’es per ma gent Qu’apres ma mort n’auran reprochament Si çai me laisson pres No’m meravihl s’ieu ai lo cor dolent Que mos senher met ma terra en turment No li membra del nostre sagrament Que nos feimes els sans cominalment Ben sai de ver que gaire longament Non serai en çai pres English translation: No prisoner can tell his honest thought Unless he speaks as one who suffers wrong; But for his comfort as he may make a song. My friends are many, but their gifts are naught. Shame will be theirs, if, for my ransom, here I lie another year. They know this well, my barons and my men, Normans, English, Gascons, Poitevains, That I had never follower so low Whom I would leave in prison to my gain. I say it not for a reproach to them, But prisoner I am! The ancient proverb now I know for sure; Death and a prison know nor kind nor tie, Since for mere lack of gold they let me lie. Much for myself I grieve; for them still more. After my death they will have grievous wrong If I am a prisoner long. What marvel that my heart is sad and sore When my own lord torments my helpless lands! Well do I know that, if he held his hands, Remembering the common oath we swore, I should not here imprisoned with my song, Remain a prisoner long. They know this well who now are rich and strong Young gentlemen of Anjou and Touraine, That far from them, on hostile bonds I strain. They loved me much, but have not loved me long. Their plans will see no more fair lists arrayed While I lie here betrayed. 00:00 French part 5:32 Occitan part