This video features:
Part Two
In the Tavern (Nos. 13-14)
13. Ego sum abbas (Baritone & Male Chorus)
14. In taberna quando sumus (Male Chorus)
13. Ego sum abbas (Baritone & Male Chorus)
I'm tavern abbot of Cucany,
with drinkers keep I company,
a gambler's is my pedigree.
Who seeks me for dice at early morn
will by night of shirt and shorts be shorn.
And thus denuded will he mourn:
Wafna, Wafna!
O infamous fate, I am forlorn,
joy's formere estate
is turned to scorn!
14. In taberna quando sumus (Male Chorus)
When we order up a round,
we disavow six feet of ground,
but rush to gaming, place our bet,
at this you'll find us in a sweat.
What goes on here in the pub
amid the coin and chug-a-lug,
be this the scene that you seek out,
it's this that I would speak about.
One and all they drink and game,
they live a life that knows no shame,
those who trust in a gambler's knack,
depart the game with a barren back
some leave the premises very well healed,
others leave naked in sack cloth concealed.
No one there of death thinks twice
when for the drinks they roll the dice.
First they roll to see who pays-
to that their cups they freely raise;
they drink next to all who captive dwell
and third to those alive and well,
fourth to their Christian brethren,
fifth to the darly departed. Amen!
Sixth to vain sisters as years take their roll,
seventh to foresters out on patrol.
Eight to such brothers as don't give a damn,
ninth to the absentees out on the lam,
tenth to sea captains addicted to sailing,
eleventh to rioters, ranting and railing,
twelfth to the rueful who penance pay,
thirteenth to the backpacking émigré,
as much to the papacy as to the king,
they untiringly drink to everything.
Host and hostess unstintingly pour,
there's nothing the parson or soldiers like more,
they drink, one and all, irrespective of gender,
the table-top wiper and sweetmeat vendor
They drink, the swift and slow of wit,
whether black or white doesn't matter a bit,
drink the steadfast and dissipated,
the ignorant and decorated.
Drinks the poor man in failing health,
prodigal son gone to waste with his wealth,
the again man and pubescent lad
cannot recall how much they've had,
the prelate, deacon, mother and hag,
sisters and brothers are all in the bag.
They drink irrespective of gender or years,
they drink till it gurgles inside of their ears.
Six hundred cups is a meager amount
for those who long since have lost track of the count,
and so they imbibe with no limit to set,
as gladly they'd swim in it sans regret;
thus decent folk do chew us out,
degrade the indigent devout-
Let those who demean us be disgraced,
from the rolls of righteous men erased.
Tags: Carmina burana Fortuna Carlf Orff Jean Pierre Ponnelle
