Max Kade Postdoctoral Fellowship

Max Kade Postdoctoral Fellowship

I’m excited to announce that I will be a 2024/2025 Max Kade Postdoctoral Fellow at the Berlin Program for Advanced German and European Studies at the Freie Universität in Berlin. To read more on the 2024/2025 Berlin Program fellows and their research, click here.

During the fellowship, I will revise and expand my DMA thesis on the Lieder of composer Luise Adolpha Le Beau (1850-1927). My project is titled, Cornflowers and Heather: The ‘In-Between’ Songs of Luise Adolpha Le Beau. For more information on my Le Beau research, including media clips and the Le Beau publishing project, click here.

Comtessa de Dia, The Early Music Police & Me: Part I

Comtessa de Dia, The Early Music Police & Me: Part I

For this two-part series, I turned my attention to a song from long ago, “A chantar m’er de so q’ieu no volria” (I must sing of what I’d rather not) by medieval trobairitz Comtessa de Dia (c. 1140-1212).

“A chantar” is unique in the history of Western classical music; it is the sole surviving melody by a woman composer from medieval Occitania. By performing this more than eight-hundred-year-old song about heartbreak, I encountered a tangle of musical and personal lessons. I learned to sing a medieval song in Old Occitan for the first time (more on that in Part II). I considered how the weight of expertise, even in the pursuit of musical excellence and historical “authenticity,” is sometimes an exclusionary force. I also found that, although we live(d) in very different worlds, Comtessa de Dia and I share many things.

For a complete list of the works, composers, and performers, click on the “YouTube” icon to access the video’s description.

For a deep dive into the sound and visual world of the medieval era, I invite you to explore this musical compilation as you read. This collection includes sacred and secular works from the 11th to 15th Centuries, including works by Raimon de Miraval (c.1135/60-1220), Thomas of Celano (1185-1265), Alfonso X of Castile (1221-1284), and Guillaume de Machaut (1300-1377).

I’m not an expert though… (she says, under her breath)

I love early music, but I’m not an early music expert.

And by early music, I mean something both enormous and quite specific – classical music repertoire from before 1750. By early music expert, I mean someone who has focused most of their musical and scholarly efforts on the interpretation, analysis, and performance of music from this particular time period.

In January 2023, my introduction to medieval music came in the form of “A chantar m’er de so q’ieu no volria” (I must sing of what I’d rather not), a medieval song by Comtessa de Dia (c. 1140-1212), a noblewoman and trobairitz from southern France.

After performing “A chantar” at Peabody Institute, I received an email from a professor of Classics, who had attended the concert. This professor expressed an interest in performing medieval music and was curious about my musical preparations – where did I find my sources, and how did I interpret them?

In responding to their email, I felt slightly anxious as I outlined my process. I had only sung one medieval song, once. I began my response with the ultimate apologetic qualifier, writing,

Firstly, I should mention that [“A chantar”] marks my first foray into medieval monody, and I am by no means an expert in this era of vocal repertoire.”

I’ve heard other singers sheepishly admit to a lack of early music expertise. With hushed voices, they would share as an aside, “I’m not an expert though,” as if being labelled an “expert” was the permission you needed to assert any relationship at all to early music.

As I reread my email response over a year later, I cringed at my earnest attempt to appear transparent, as I blatantly undermined my own accomplishments. I see now that I wasn’t suffering solely from a case of impostor syndrome. Rather, I was expressing a very real anxiety, one that permeates classical music and readily evokes the specter of the “early music police.”

Of course, to argue even modestly against the orthodoxy of classical music expertise is an uncomfortable position to find yourself in. What you’re told from a young age in lessons, workshops, summer programs, and conservatory classes, is that expertise is – the whole point. We’re not “dabblers” or “amateurs.” It’s worth mentioning that these labels were used to police the professional achievements of 19th-century women musicians and have unsurprisingly retained their potency as insults for all in our modern times.

No, we’re expert practitioners with a honed set of skills, buoyed by the ability to position ourselves within a musical tradition where we can claim that we know enough about how music sounded in the past, to therefore know how it should (or could) sound in the present. 

All of this I understand, and I value. For example, it’s clear to me that She Is Song represents my own attempt to articulate an area of personal expertise. It’s important to acknowledge, however, that any quest for an expert and historically “authentic” perspective creates blind spots, no matter the musical era.

Welcome to Medieval Occitania: The Land of the Trobairitz

Trobairitz, a feminized form of the word “troubadour,” were women composer-poets of the 12th to 13th Centuries, who resided in Occitania, a region roughly comprised of lands in modern-day southern France, the Val d’Aran in Catalonia, Monaco, and the Occitan Valleys of Italy. Active between 1170 and 1260, trobairitz wrote and sang in Old Occitan, or the langue d’oc.

A hand-colored woodcut depicting medieval country life from a 1517 French edition of Virgil
Alamy Photo

Six modern variants of Occitan, a Romance language whose closest linguistic cousin is Catalan, are still in use throughout this region, although all are considered “endangered” by UNESCO due to their dwindling populations of younger speakers.[1] It is fascinating to consider that a not-so distant version of the language that Comtessa de Dia sang over eight hundred years ago in “A chantar” still exists today.

Cité de Carcassonne, an extant medieval fortress in Occitania and UNESCO World Heritage Site, illustrates the type of community where Comtessa de Dia could have lived. I was lucky enough to visit Carcassonne with my family in 2008; it was a magical experience to wander the streets of a medieval fortress city that remained completely intact over the centuries.
Alamy Photo

In the annals of music history, the troubadour and the trobairitz are credited as the first composer-poets of a non-Latin, secular song repertoire in Western continental Europe.[2] This musical practice flourished throughout the High Middle Ages, a period that lasted from the late 11th Century until the devastating advent of the bubonic plague in the mid-14th Century. After the dissolution of the Frankish Empire, Occitania fractured into distinct principalities, ruled by a cadre of noblemen and bishops who jockeyed for power over the region.

William IX, Count of Poitiers and Duke of Aquitaine and Gascony (1071-1126) was such a man: he successfully captured the neighboring principality of Toulouse, was excommunicated twice, served as an unsuccessful military commander in the Crusade of 1101, and, in his greatest (and most lasting) achievement, wrote lyric poetry and set it to music.[3]

Eleven of William IX’s songs survive, representing the earliest extant troubadour repertoire. Nicknamed “The Troubadour,” he wrote primarily about love, sex, political machinations, and military conquests.

13th-century manuscript image of William IX
Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fr 12473
Wikimedia Commons
14th-century manuscript image of a 1st Crusade siege (1095-1099)
Bibliothèque nationale de France, Roman de Godefroy de Bouillon
Alamy Photo
Listen to a wonderful English recitation of “Farai un vers de dreit nien” or “The Song of Nothing” by William IX, Count of Poitiers and Duke of Aquitaine,
performed by singer, actor, and composer Martin Best with the Martin Best Mediaeval Ensemble.

In contemporary popular culture, troubadours are often depicted as lower-class, wandering musicians, who sang their songs from court to court. In Chantal Phan’s essay “The Comtessa de Dia and the Trobairitz,” the author observes that, like William IX, troubadours were primarily aristocrats, and their main concerns were often political and military in nature, rather than artistic.[4]

Although troubadours performed their own compositions, it was jongleurs, a class of itinerant performer travelling throughout the courts of Europe, who disseminated the troubadour and trobairitz repertoire beyond the borders of Occitania.

11th-century manuscript image of a jongleur and an acrobat or juggler
Alamy Photo

The Many Songs of the Trobairitz

Trobairitz and troubadours created a variety of song genres, each defined by their poetic structure and literary themes. Examples include the canso (love song), sirventes (a political poem or satire), tenso (a rhetorical debate between two poets), maldit (a song bemoaning a lady’s perceived character flaws and misbehaviors), and planh (a eulogy, or lament on the death of a famous person).

Listen here to “Chanson do’ill mot son plan e prim” or “Songs whose words are sweet and easy” by troubadour Arnaut Daniel (fl. 1180-1200), performed by singer Barbara Thornton and the medieval ensemble Sequentia. This is an example of a canso, or love song, in which the singer both celebrates and bemoans an unrequited love. To read the Old Occitan poem and its English translation, click here.

In medieval chansonniers (songbooks), 2,500 texts have been attributed to more than four hundred male authors, or troubadours.[5] Sadly, a much smaller corpus has survived for the trobairitz. Approximately 23 to 49 texts are attributed to roughly twenty women authors, although this tally remains speculative due to the inclusion of anonymous poems that may have been written by trobairitz.[6]

Notably, only one trobairitz melody has survived, “A chantar m’er de so q’ieu no volria” (I must sing of what I’d rather not) by Comtessa de Dia. The text for “A chantar” appears in fourteen manuscripts, while the Comtessa’s melody is preserved only once in Chansonnier du Roi, a manuscript of more than six hundred medieval songs, collected between 1255 and 1260 for Charles of Anjou (1226-1285).

I drew my score for “A chantar” from this 13th-century chansonnier, housed at the Bibliothèque national de France in Paris. The melody for “A chantar” begins at the bottom right of the first page, marked by a gold “A.” It continues onto the top left corner of the following page.

The existence of a single trobairitz melody places scholars and performers in a difficult, yet fascinating bind. To “hear” the songs of these medieval female musicians, we must draw heavily from their literary practices. In Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner’s introduction to Songs of the Women Troubadours, the author writes, “The trobairitz give precious testimony of the ways aristocratic women in Southern France were able to participate fully in the game and life of poetry, not only as patrons and objects of song but as poets singing and reshaping the art of the troubadours.”[7]

Illustration from a manuscript by Rudolf von Ems (1200-1254)
Alamy Photo

Like their male counterparts, trobairitz typically belonged to the aristocracy. However, the trobairitz corpus of songs remains a unique outgrowth of Occitan culture, seemingly unreplicated in other parts of Europe. Although Occitan society was feudalistic, and by no means feminist or remotely egalitarian, the songs of the trobairitz may illustrate the expanded rights that noblewomen attained in medieval southern France, particularly between 1180 and 1230.

Scholars, such as Meg Bogin, argue that a variety of socio-cultural factors may have contributed to the elevated status of Occitan noblewomen, including laws that allowed women to inherit property, the exodus of men to fight in the Crusades leaving women to manage estates, and a cultural emphasis in Occitania on economic stability and pleasure-seeking activities.[8]

An illustration of women picking roses to make rosewater from their petals; excerpted from the Tacuinum Sanitatis, a 14th-century medieval handbook on health, translated into Latin from the original 11th-century Arabic medical treatise by ibn Butlan of Baghdad
Alamy Photo

The Early Music Police & Me

For several years, I intended to program medieval repertoire on recitals, but had repeatedly balked at the inclusion of songs by a medieval woman composer. From my undergrad days studying with countertenor Drew Minter, who exposed me to the music of Claudio Monteverdi, Henry Purcell, G.F. Handel, and J.S. Bach, I had always loved Baroque repertoire, an era that spanned roughly 1600 to 1750.

As I continued with my graduate studies in music and later entered the professional realm, I searched for opportunities to improve my Baroque skills. I attended workshops, participated in a Young Artist Program, performed Baroque repertoire in concert, and programmed it on my own recitals. As I became more and more interested in the contributions of women creators in classical music, I transferred that curiosity to the Baroque era, researching composers like Barbara Strozzi (1619-1677) and Élisabeth Jacquet de La Guerre (1665-1729).

Since I’ve always been drawn to a variety of classical genres and eras, I never specialized. I never attempted to become an expert in any type of early music.

Still, even with a decade of experience performing Baroque repertoire, the act of singing a song composed more than five hundred years prior to J.S. Bach’s death in 1750, intimidated me. The distance of “ancient” music from contemporary life seemed to shroud it in a haze of ineffable mystery.

I had fallen into a trap, one which I had experienced many times as I trudged through the field of classical music. I allowed myself to believe that, unless the title of “expert” had been bestowed upon me, unless I had read every treatise available or had participated in a variety of sanctioned workshops, I lacked the authority to engage with certain types of music on the concert stage.

I was, in fact, afraid of the early music police.

On a sheet of tips and advice handed to the participants of the Vancouver Early Music Festival Vocal Program, which I attended in 2013, “THERE ARE NO EARLY MUSIC POLICE” was typed in capital letters. As the two-week session concluded, our workshop facilitators organized a conversation around aspects of pursuing a vocal career in early music. From thoughts on auditions to vocal health, what stood out to me the most at the time (and what I remember clearly more than eleven years later) was a discussion about this final statement on the page – “There are no early music police.”

The program’s director explained that the “early music police” were gatekeepers, a word that was entirely new to my 2013 self. He revealed that they’re everywhere in the field of classical music, where notions of a “traditional” past problematically endure. He reminded us that it was an experimental spirit and an open mind that drove the adherents of the so-called early music revival of the mid- to late 20th Century in western Europe. These musicians and scholars saw beyond a Western cultural obsession with 18th- and 19th-century classical repertoire to rediscover Medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque musical practice for future generations.

However, as the revivalists challenged entrenched notions of cultural “value,” they formed a new canon, now of early music. This canon was more inclusive than its 19th-century counterpart in some respects, but still defined by 20th-century musicians with their own set of standards, assumptions, and judgments. In terms of gender prejudice and underrepresentation, I would later learn that this expanded canon was a lot of the same, but now with older music.

Our director left us with a final imperative, which again, I’ve never forgotten. Never allow a quest for historical “authenticity,” no matter how well-intentioned, to bar you from entry.

Who was Comtessa de Dia?

While she retains her name in the historical archive, scant details exist about the identity of Comtessa de Dia. Most of what is known about the lives of trobairitz come from vidas, or short prose biographies in chansonniers. In these medieval song and poetry manuscripts, vidas often precede a collection of works by a particular author.

These life stories are unfortunately unreliable as biographical sources; they often draw information directly from an author’s poetry, reading more like a work of fiction. Many of them were also written over a century after the death of their subjects.[9]

13th-century manuscript image of Comtessa de Dia
Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS cod. fr. 12473
Wikimedia Commons

Only five vidas of individual trobairitz appear in the chansonniers. Comtessa de Dia’s vida appears in four different 13th-century song manuscripts, which may be a testament to her renown as a trobairitz.[10] The Comtessa’s vida describes an attractive and kind noblewoman, married to Guillem de Poitiers, yet in love with another. Her unrequited passion for this lover, Raimbault d’Orange, inspires her many popular chansons (songs).

The countess of Dia was the wife of En Guillem de Poitiers,
a lady beautiful and good. And she fell in love with En
Raimbault d’Orange, and wrote many good chansons
in his honor

In Maryann Corbett’s article “The Countess of Dia and the Women Troubadours,” the author identifies an existential problem with the melodramatic narrative of the Comtessa’s vida – despite exhaustive research, no woman has materialized in the medieval archive who fits its description.[12]

What scholars have posited is that Comtessa de Dia may have been the daughter of Count Isoard II of Diá, a town on the Drôme River in the marquisate of Provence. Her first name may have been Beatriz or Isoarda, but no medieval source specifies. As for the partners mentioned in the Comtessa’s vida, she could have been the wife of Guilhelm de Poitiers, Count of Viennois, but this marriage would have made her too young to be the lover of Raimbault d’Orange (1146-1173).[13] Raimbault d’Orange was also a respected troubadour; around forty of his poems survive in chansonniers.

The Canso & Courtly Love

While the Comtessa’s biography lacks verifiable details, we can concretely consider her poetry and music. She composed one surviving tenso (debate poem) and four cansos (love songs) with “A chantar” being the only song to retain its music.

As the dominant troubadour song genre until the second half of the 13th Century, cansos were love songs, usually from the perspective of a male protagonist to their unattainable female lover, or domna (lady). These songs conveyed the drama of ‘fin’ amors (courtly love), a potent socio-cultural ideology amongst the nobility of the later Middle Ages.

Courtly scene from the Codex Vindobonensis
Alamy Photo

‘Fin’ amors valued gentilesse (refinement) as an elemental aspect of love. Courtiers refined themselves as nobles by idealizing and remaining faithful to an unrequited love. Since medieval marriage was often arranged and the product of military and/or financial negotiations, ‘fin’ amors was an expression of romantic love outside the confines of a contractual relationship. In this way, medieval canso celebrated love as a wellspring of joi (joy), while also portraying it as a depressing and isolating force due to the lover’s unattainability.[14]

“A chantar m’er de so q’ieu no volria”

Illustration of an “Allegory of Music” in Echecs amoureux by Robinet Testard (fl. 1471-1531)
Bibliothèque nationale de France, Français 143, fol. 65v
Wikimedia Commons

In “A chantar,” Comtessa de Dia constructs an intimate portrait of an angry and heartbroken woman, who has been abandoned by her unspecified lover for another. From stanza to stanza, she employs a series of often-contradictory rhetorical tactics, such as disbelief, arrogance, frustration, acceptance, and seduction, to prove her righteous case against him, yet possibly win back his affections.

Listen to my performance of “A chantar” with harpist Alix Evans at Peabody Institute in January 2023. Our collaboration was part of Sauvez-moi de ‘amour, a chamber music program, which you can read more about here. Also, check out the second installment in this series, Comtessa de Dia, The Early Music Police & Me: Part II, to learn more about how to actually sing a medieval song in Old Occitan (and my final musings on the early music police).

A chantar m’er de so q’ieu no volria

A chantar m’er de so q’ieu no volria,      
tant me rancur de lui cui sui amia,           
car eu l’am mais que nuilla ren que sia;  
vas lui no.m val merces ni cortesia          
ni ma beltatz ni mos pretz ni mos sens,   
c’atressi.m sui enganada e trahia             
com degr’esser s’ieu fos desavinens.        

D’aisso.m conort car anc non fis faillenssa,
amics, vas vos per nuilla captenenssa,
anz vos am mais non fetz Seguis Valenssa,
e platz mi mout que eu d’amar vos venssa,
lo mieus amics, car etz lo plus valens;
mi faitz orgoil en digz et en parvenssa
e si etz francs vas totas autras gens.  

Meraveill me cum vostre cors s’orgoilla,
amics, vas me per q’ai razon qe.m doilla;
non es ies dreitz c’autr’amors vos mi toilla
per nuilla ren diga acoilla,
e member vos cals fo.l comenssamens
de nostr’amor, ia Dompnedieus non vuoilla
q’en ma colpa sia.l departimens.

Proessa grans q’el vostre cors s’aizina
e lo rics pretz q’avetz m’en ataina,
e’una non sai loindana ni vezina
si vol amar vas vos no si aclina;
mas vos, amics, ez ben tant conoissens
que ben devetz conoisser la plus fina,
e membre vos de nostres covinens.  

Valer mi deu mos pretz e mos paratges
e ma beutatz e plus mos fins coratges,
per q’ieu vos man lai on es vostre estatges
esta chansson que me sia messatges,
e voill saber, lo mieus bels amics gens,
per que m’etz vos tant fers ni tant salvatges,
no sai si s’es orgoills ni mals talens.  

Mas aitan plus vuoill li digas, messatges,
q’en trop orgoill ant gran dan maintas gens.  

I must sing of what I’d rather not    

I must sing of what I’d rather not,
I’m so angry about him whose friend I am,
for I love him more than anything;
mercy and courtliness don’t help me with him,
nor does my beauty, or my rank, or my mind;
for I am every bit as betrayed and wronged
as I’d deserve to be if I were ugly.

It comforts me that I have done no wrong to you,
my friend, through any action,
indeed, I love you more than Seguis loved Valenssa,
and it pleases me to outdo you in loving,
friend, for you are the most valiant;
you offer prideful words and looks to me,
but are gracious to every other person.  

It amazes me how prideful your heart is towards me,
friend, for which I’m right to grieve;
it isn’t fair that another love takes you away
because of any word or welcome I might give you.
And remember how it was at the beginning of our love;
may the Lord God not allow our parting
to be any fault of mine.

The great valor that dwells in your person
and the high rank you have, these trouble me,
for I don’t know a woman, far or near,
who, if she wished to love, would not turn to you;
but you, friend, are so knowing
that you surely ought to know the truest one,
and remember what our agreement was.  

My rank and lineage should be of help to me,
and my beauty and, still more, my true heart,
this song, let it be my messenger, therefore,
I send it to you, out on your estate,
and I would like to know, my fine, fair friend,
why you are so fierce and cruel to me,
I can’t tell if it’s from pride or malice.  

I especially want you, messenger, to tell him
that too much pride brings harm to many persons.

Text from Songs of the Women Troubadours (1995);
Edited and translated by Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner, Laurie Shepard, and Sarah White

Ultimately, the Countess demands to know the cause of her lover’s fickleness – why have his feelings abruptly changed towards her? She cannot fathom why; she believes herself to be irresistible and has no embarrassment in citing her beauty, intelligence, fidelity, rank, and noble birth. For our protagonist, it is unclear whether her ex-lover’s hurtful behavior is a result of his overwhelming arrogance or a blatant desire to wound her. Regardless, she hopes that the words of “A chantar” reach his ears, forcing him to confront his shameful actions.

It is unclear whether the Comtessa publicly performed “A chantar” as herself with its subsequent autobiographical implications (perhaps referring to her unrequited love for troubadour Raimbault d’Orange), or as the fictional character of a rejected “Countess.” Regardless, her words fly off the page, ever relatable to a contemporary audience. Many of us have behaved like the Comtessa and her fickle lover – we have humbled ourselves to sudden heartbreak, while pridefully touting our own exceptional qualities in the face of brutal rejection.

“The Lute Player and the Harpist” (c. 1495-1503)
Alamy Photos

In this way, it is fascinating to experience “A chantar” as an illustration of how trobairitz engaged with the complex poetic and musical forms of the troubadour repertoire. Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner writes, “In [their songs] we can see most vividly how the trobairitz are able to renew the poetic system from within by combining in a variety of ways the different personae of women generally separated and fragmented by the male poets… Through the kaleidoscope of her songs, the trobairitz becomes at once woman, lady, and poet.”[15]

The Lingering Ghosts of the Early Music Police

15th-century illustration of women musicians playing the shawm, lute, cornet, portative, psaltery, recorder, and tabor from Martin Le Franc’s Le Champion des Dames (1440 or 1442) which relates the noble deeds of women throughout history
Alamy Photos

Over the past eleven years since our workshop discussion in Vancouver, I’ve met the early music police, although they’re hardly unique to early music. Indeed, gatekeepers are everywhere; they’re a confusing mixture of real individuals and organizations, cultural abstractions, systemic biases, and frankly, the ghosts I create from my own self-doubt.

I’ve found that they’re the ones who use their knowledge, their expertise as it were, to keep you out, not to invite you in. Whether through an offhand remark, a bullying posture, or an expression that simply screams “you’re really going to sing it like that?,” the result is often the same – a nagging fear that, even if you’ve worked your hardest to achieve all the trappings of professionalism, your voice will never quite belong.

What ultimately humbled me about my personal sojourn to sing the only surviving song by a noblewoman from medieval Occitania was that – I didn’t need to necessarily gird myself against an outside force, waiting to undermine my confidence. Sadly, I was expert at doing that on my own. This time, I had become my own version of the early music police.

And so, in the spirit of Comtessa de Dia and her trobairitz compatriots, who refashioned the lyrical and musical framework of troubadour song from the inside-out, rejecting preconceived notions is sometimes best accomplished in the doing.

When I finally committed to “A chantar” in concert, something unexpected, yet wonderful occurred. The early music police (although still very much with us all) were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a group of talented individuals appeared, who, if we were members of an improv troupe, said “yes, and” at every turn and invited me in.

This blog will be published in two installments. Coming soon – Comtessa de Dia, The Early Music Police & Me: Part II! Read more on how to actually sing a medieval song in Old Occitan (and my final musings on the early music police).


[1]  “Endangered Languages: The Full List,” The Guardian, April 15, 2011,
[2] Chantal Phan, “Comtessa de Dia and the Trobairitz,” in Women Composers: Music Through the Ages, eds. Martha Furman Schleifer and Sylvia Glickman (New York: G.K. Hall, 1996), vol 1: 61.
[3] Ibid.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner, Laurie Shepard, and Sarah White, Songs of the Women Troubadours (New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1995), xxxix.
[6] Songs of the Women Troubadours, xi.
[7] Ibid.
[8] Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner. “Fictions of the Female Voice: The Women Troubadours.” Speculum 67, no. 4 (1992): 4,
[9] Maryann Corbett, “The Countess of Dia and the Women Troubadours,” The Mezzo Cammin, accessed on April 1-29, 2024,
[10] Corbett, “The Countess of Dia and the Women Troubadours.”
[11] Meg Bogin, The Women Troubadours (New York: W.W. Norton, 1980), 163.
[12] Corbett, “The Countess of Dia and the Women Troubadours.”
[13] Elizabeth Aubrey, “Comtessa de Dia” in Grove Music Online, 2001,
[14] Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopaedia, “courtly love,” Encyclopedia Britannica, January 8, 2020,
[15] Songs of the Women Troubadours, xivi.


1. Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner, Laurie Shepard, and Sarah White, Songs of the Women Troubadours (New York & London: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1995), xi-9.

2. Matilda Tomaryn Bruckner. “Fictions of the Female Voice: The Women Troubadours.” Speculum 67, no. 4 (1992): 865–91.

2. Timothy J. McGee, A.G. Rigg, and David N. Klausner, eds., Singing Early Music: The Pronunciation of European Languages in the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance (Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1996), 103-112.

3. Henrik van der Werf, The Extant Troubadour Melodies: Transcriptions and Essays for Performers and Scholars (self-pub., 1984), 3-83.

4. Meg Bogin, The Women Troubadours (New York: W.W. Norton, 1980).

5. Maryann Corbett, “The Countess of Dia and the Women Troubadours,” The Mezzo Cammin, accessed on April 1-29, 2024,

6. Chantal Phan, “Comtessa de Dia and the Trobairitz,” in Women Composers: Music Through the Ages, eds. Martha Furman Schleifer and Sylvia Glickman (New York: G.K. Hall, 1996), vol 1: 61-68.

7. “Endangered Languages: The Full List,” The Guardian, April 15, 2011,

8. Elizabeth Aubrey, “Comtessa de Dia” in Grove Music Online, 2001,

9. Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopaedia, “courtly love,” Encyclopedia Britannica, January 8, 2020,

10. Sue Carole DeVale, Bo Lawergren, Joan Rimmer, Robert Evans, William Taylor, Cristina Bordas, Cheryl Ann Fulton, John M. Schechter, Nancy Thym-Hochrein, Hannelore Devaere and Mary McMaster, “Harp” in Grove Music Online, 2001,