Christmas is long gone (or maybe not that long, we just dismantled our tree a week ago!), but I have rescued this translation of mine from old Aglardh.
Tár Wenseslas ehtenne
Estefanwa résse
Ette losse keante
Kéva, lára, ninque
Nixe náne naikea
Mal Rána síle silma
Íre penno nemune
Ye tundo komyaila
Sir, núro, sisse tará
Queta nin lintie
Enta moiar, man se ná,
Ar koarya masse?
Héru, maris nu i oron
Quanta lár sillo
Ara i kelure tá
Ette i taure‐pelo
Tultá hráva, tultá limpe
Tultá tundo sira
Kenuvammes ahtumate
Yá kolimmet hinna
Núro tarye eteménet
Eteménet uo
Ter wangweo nainie
Tere nwalka raumo
Hér, morna i lóme sí
I súre antaura
Hominya loita, manan?
Lá polin mene póna
Á hilya runyanyar, núro,
Vanta mi te verka,
Kena, rúse hríveva
Lá heltuva yáretya
Runyaryassen patanes
Yas’ losse palpaina
Hrisse úre fainane
Pó i aino auta
Etta Hristondili
Arate ar alye
Sí qui pennor mánatar
Almárie inte.
Neologisms:
ehten- vb “look out” < etken‐ cf. ehtele
penno n. “poor man” < PEN
nemu- vb “appear, come to sight” inchoative form of nem‐
moiar n. “labourer” from moia‐ to distinguish from mól “slave, thrall”
ahtumat- vb “to dine”
helta- vb “freeze (trans)”
Here’s the English original:
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the Feast of Stephen
When the snow lay round about
Deep and crisp and even
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel
When a poor man came in sight
Gathering winter fuel
Hither, page, and stand by me,
If thou knowst it, telling
Yonder peasant, who is he?
Where and what his dwelling?
Sire, he lives a good league hence,
Underneath the mountain
Right against the forest fence
By Saint Agnes fountain.
Bring me flesh and bring me wine
Bring me pine logs hither
Thou and I shall see him dine
When we bear them thither.
Page and monarch, forth they went
Forth they went together
Through the rude winds wild lament
And the bitter weather
Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how
I can go no longer.
Mark my footsteps, good my page
Tread thou in them boldly
Thou shall find the winters rage
Freeze thy blood less coldly.
In his masters step he trod
Where the snow lay dinted
Heat was in the very sod
Which the Saint had printed
Therefore, Christian men, be sure
Wealth or rank possessing
Ye, who now will bless the poor
Shall yourselves find blessing.
If you want a more in-depth discussion on this topic you can do it on Aglardh Forum