I read The Silesian Weavers poem a couple of years ago when SelenaK showed it to me. It's in German (naturally) and there are a couple of existing translations online here by Edgar Alfred Bowring (which is probably the best) here by Sacha Foreman (which is terrible - apparently she thinks weavers use spinning wheels) but I wanted to see what I could do myself. It's a political poem about the exploitation of workers at the start of the Industrial Revolution.
The problem with translating any poem is trying to translate the meaning while also keeping to a pattern of rhyme and scansion. Especially if one wants to retain something of the original rhythm.
To me, this poem has a very staccato rhythm, that makes me thinks of the sound of a shuttle flying back and forth across the loom with a regular bang, making it important to try and retain some of that (easier in some verses than others)
You can read my translation attempt under the original German.
Here's the German original by Heinrich Heine
Die Schlesischen Weber
Heinrich Heine
Im düstern Auge keine Träne,
Sie sitzen am Webstuhl und fletschen die Zähne:
»Deutschland, wir weben dein Leichentuch,
Wir weben hinein den dreifachen Fluch -
Wir weben, wir weben!
Ein Fluch dem Gotte, zu dem wir gebeten
In Winterskälte und Hungersnöten
Wir haben vergebens gehofft und geharrt,
Er hat uns geäfft und gefoppt und genarrt -
Wir weben, wir weben!
Ein Fluch dem König, dem König der Reichen,
Den unser Elend nicht konnte erweichen,
Der den letzten Groschen von uns erpreßt,
Und uns wie Hunde erschießen läßt!
Wir weben, wir weben!
Ein Fluch dem falschen Vaterlande,
Wo nur gedeihen Schmach und Schande,
Wo jede Blume früh geknickt
Wo Fäulnis und Moder den Wurm erquickt -
Wir weben, wir weben!
Das Schiffchen fliegt, der Webstuhl kracht,
Wir weben emsig Tag und Nacht -
Altdeutschland, wir weben dein Leichentuch,
Wir weben hinein den dreifachen Fluch,
Wir weben, wir weben!«
The Silesian Weavers. (Judith Proctor's translation)
With gloomy eyes, no tears beneath,
They sit at the loom and bare their teeth.
Deutschland, we're weaving your funeral shroud,
A triple curse within endowed,
We're weaving. We're weaving!
A curse on God - to him we prayed
In Winter's cold and hunger's need.
We hoped and waited all in vain,
He mocked us, and teased us, and fooled us again.
We're weaving. We're weaving!
A curse on the king, the king of the rich,
Even our pain could not move him a stitch.
He stole our last coins, that we needed to eat,
And let us be shot, like dogs in the street
We're weaving. We're weaving!
A curse on this false Fatherland,
Where shame and dishonour together band,
Where every flower is plucked too soon,
Where mould, corruption and maggots bloom.
We're weaving. We're weaving!
The shuttle flies, it crashes loud,
Day and night we weave your shroud,
Old Deutschland we weave, and in each verse,
We weave within the triple curse,
We're weaving. We're weaving!
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