Poems & Ballads Volume II Part 18

Breton and Swiss know nought of the matter, Gascony girls or girls of Toulouse; Two fishwives here with a half-hour's chatter Would shut them up by threes and twos; Calais, Lorraine, and all their crews, (Names enow the mad song marries) England and Picardy, search them and choose, There's no good girl's lip out of Paris.

Prince, give praise to our French ladies For the sweet sound their speaking carries; 'Twixt Rome and Cadiz many a maid is, But no good girl's lip out of Paris.

BALLAD WRITTEN FOR A BRIDEGROOM

WHICH VILLON GAVE TO A GENTLEMAN NEWLY MARRIED TO SEND TO HIS WIFE WHOM HE HAD WON WITH THE SWORD

At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings, No whit for grief, but n.o.ble heart and high, With loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs, And takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh; Such good I wish you! Yea, and heartily I am fired with hope of true love's meed to get; Know that Love writes it in his book; for why, This is the end for which we twain are met.

Mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings You shall be always wholly till I die; And in my right against all bitter things Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try; Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by (Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret) Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly; This is the end for which we twain are met.

And, which is more, when grief about me clings Through Fortune's fit or fume of jealousy, Your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings As wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye.

Thus in your field my seed of harvestry Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set; G.o.d bids me tend it with good husbandry; This is the end for which we twain are met.

Princess, give ear to this my summary; That heart of mine your heart's love should forget Shall never be: like trust in you put I: This is the end for which we twain are met.

BALLAD AGAINST THE ENEMIES OF FRANCE

May he fall in with beasts that scatter fire, Like Jason, when he sought the fleece of gold, Or change from man to beast three years entire, As King Nebuchadnezzar did of old; Or else have times as shameful and as bad As Trojan folk for ravished Helen had; Or gulfed with Proserpine and Tantalus Let h.e.l.l's deep fen devour him dolorous, With worse to bear than Job's worst sufferance, Bound in his prison-maze with Ddalus, Who could wish evil to the state of France!

May he four months, like bitterns in the mire, Howl with head downmost in the lake-springs cold, Or to bear harness like strong bulls for hire To the Great Turk for money down be sold; Or thirty years like Magdalen live sad, With neither wool nor web of linen clad; Drown like Narciss', or swing down pendulous Like Absalom with locks luxurious, Or liker Judas fallen to reprobance; Or find such death as Simon sorcerous, Who could wish evil to the state of France!

May the old times come of fierce Octavian's ire, And in his belly molten coin be told; May he like Victor in the mill expire, Crushed between moving millstones on him rolled, Or in deep sea drenched breathless, more adrad Than in the whale's bulk Jonas, when G.o.d bade: From Phoebus' light, from Juno's treasure-house Driven, and from joys of Venus amorous, And cursed of G.o.d most high to the utterance, As was the Syrian king Antiochus, Who could wish evil to the state of France!

Prince, may the bright-winged brood of olus To sea-king Glaucus' wild wood cavernous Bear him bereft of peace and hope's least glance, For worthless is he to get good of us, Who could wish evil to the state of France.

THE DISPUTE OF THE HEART AND BODY OF FRANOIS VILLON

Who is this I hear?--Lo, this is I, thine heart, That holds on merely now by a slender string.

Strength fails me, shape and sense are rent apart, The blood in me is turned to a bitter thing, Seeing thee skulk here like a dog s.h.i.+vering.-- Yea, and for what?--For that thy sense found sweet.-- What irks it thee?--I feel the sting of it.-- Leave me at peace.--Why?--Nay now, leave me at peace; I will repent when I grow ripe in wit.-- I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

What art thou, trow?--A man worth praise, perfay.-- This is thy thirtieth year of wayfaring.-- 'Tis a mule's age.--Art thou a boy still?--Nay.-- Is it hot l.u.s.t that spurs thee with its sting, Grasping thy throat? Know'st thou not anything?-- Yea, black and white, when milk is specked with flies, I can make out.--No more?--Nay, in no wise.

Shall I begin again the count of these?-- Thou art undone.--I will make s.h.i.+ft to rise.-- I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

I have the sorrow of it, and thou the smart.

Wert thou a poor mad fool or weak of wit, Then might'st thou plead this pretext with thine heart; But if thou know not good from evil a whit, Either thy head is hard as stone to hit, Or shame, not honour, gives thee most content.

What canst thou answer to this argument?-- When I am dead I shall be well at ease.-- G.o.d! what good hope!--Thou art over eloquent.-- I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

Whence is this ill?--From sorrow and not from sin.

When Saturn packed my wallet up for me I well believe he put these ills therein.-- Fool, wilt thou make thy servant lord of thee?

Hear now the wise king's counsel; thus saith he: All power upon the stars a wise man hath; There is no planet that shall do him scathe.-- Nay, as they made me I grow and I decrease.-- What say'st thou?--Truly this is all my faith.-- I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.--

Wouldst thou live still?--G.o.d help me that I may!-- Then thou must--What? turn penitent and pray?-- Read always--What?--Grave words and good to say; Leave off the ways of fools, lest they displease.-- Good; I will do it.--Wilt thou remember?--Yea.-- Abide not till there come an evil day.

I say no more.--I care not though thou cease.

EPISTLE IN FORM OF A BALLAD TO HIS FRIENDS

Have pity, pity, friends, have pity on me, Thus much at least, may it please you, of your grace!

I lie not under hazel or hawthorn-tree Down in this dungeon ditch, mine exile's place By leave of G.o.d and fortune's foul disgrace.

Girls, lovers, glad young folk and newly wed, Jumpers and jugglers, tumbling heel o'er head, Swift as a dart, and sharp as needle-ware, Throats clear as bells that ring the kine to shed, Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?

Singers that sing at pleasure, lawlessly, Light, laughing, gay of word and deed, that race And run like folk light-witted as ye be And have in hand nor current coin nor base, Ye wait too long, for now he's dying apace.

Rhymers of lays and roundels sung and read, Ye'll brew him broth too late when he lies dead.

Nor wind nor lightning, sunbeam nor fresh air, May pierce the thick wall's bound where lies his bed; Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?

O n.o.ble folk from t.i.thes and taxes free, Come and behold him in this piteous case, Ye that nor king nor emperor holds in fee, But only G.o.d in heaven; behold his face Who needs must fast, Sundays and holidays, Which makes his teeth like rakes; and when he hath fed With never a cake for banquet but dry bread, Must drench his bowels with much cold watery fare, With board nor stool, but low on earth instead; Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?

Princes afore-named, old and young foresaid, Get me the king's seal and my pardon sped, And hoist me in some basket up with care: So swine will help each other ill bested, For where one squeaks they run in heaps ahead.

Your poor old friend, what, will you leave him there?

THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD

WHICH VILLON MADE FOR HIMSELF AND HIS COMRADES, EXPECTING TO BE HANGED ALONG WITH THEM

Men, brother men, that after us yet live, Let not your hearts too hard against us be; For if some pity of us poor men ye give, The sooner G.o.d shall take of you pity.

Here are we five or six strung up, you see, And here the flesh that all too well we fed Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred, And we the bones grow dust and ash withal; Let no man laugh at us discomforted, But pray to G.o.d that he forgive us all.

If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we Were slain by law; ye know that all alive Have not wit alway to walk righteously; Make therefore intercession heartily With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, That his grace be not as a dry well-head For us, nor let h.e.l.l's thunder on us fall; We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, But pray to G.o.d that he forgive us all.

The rain has washed and laundered us all five, And the sun dried and blackened; yea, perdie, Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free, Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led, More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall; Men, for G.o.d's love, let no gibe here be said, But pray to G.o.d that he forgive us all.

Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, Keep us, that h.e.l.l be not our bitter bed; We have nought to do in such a master's hall.

Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, But pray to G.o.d that he forgive us all.

FROM VICTOR HUGO

Take heed of this small child of earth; He is great: he hath in him G.o.d most high.

Children before their fleshly birth Are lights alive in the blue sky.

In our light bitter world of wrong They come; G.o.d gives us them awhile.