Arany János - Győrei Zsolt (szerk.): The trill of the nightingale (Budapest, 2019)

III - „His voice, once fine and heady, still a grumble deep” - The Nightingale (Peter Zollman)

“Your what? Your bird? That’s rather much!

Watch out, or I shall give you such...”

This comes across the garden fence With other terms of wild offence “It’s mine!” says Peter raising bristles,

“He sits on my tree when he whistles!”

“It may have been your whopper tree,

But he sang on my property!”

And Paul bellows like whooping cough While Peter shouts his own head off,

And so it went from bed to worse,

To fisticuffs from spoken curse,

They jumped the hedge,

Churned up the veg,

They boxed and kicked, they wreaked and wrecked, — To pay the Lord’s Day due respect —

With bruise and blood, with wrench and rip,

But each still claiming ownership.

Our farmer Paul without repose,

Just as he was, with bleeding nose,

At once he lodged a long complaint (The evidence? He’s still blood-stained),

Relating to the magistrate The gory story clear and straight.

He knew his rights and had the will,

And added that he would appeal To court, to king, he’d crawl and kneel:

Till death he’d fight to own the trill!

Then into Justice’ even scales A gold coin fell, (this never fails).

His worship slipped this with a sleight Deep in the pocket on his right.

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