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Whiter I was than wool or snow, Fairer than any bird I know; Now am I blacker than a crow.
Now in the gravy-dish I lie, I cannot swim, I cannot fly, Nothing but gnas.h.i.+ng teeth I spy.
Woe's me! I vow, &c.
The next is _The Last Will of the Dying a.s.s_. There is not much to be said for the wit of this piece.
THE WILL OF THE DYING a.s.s.
No. 54.
While a boor, as poets tell, Whacked his patient a.s.s too well, On the ground half dead it fell.
La sol fa, On the ground half dead it fell, La sol fa mi re ut.
Then with gesture sad and low, Streaming eyes and words of woe, He at length addressed it so: "Had I known, my gentle a.s.s, Thou from me so soon wouldst pa.s.s, I'd have swaddled thee, alas!
"Made for thee a tunic meet, s.h.i.+rt and unders.h.i.+rt complete, Breeches, drawers of linen sweet.
"Rise awhile, for pity's sake, That ere life your limbs forsake You your legacies may make!"
Soon the a.s.s stood up, and thus, With a weak voice dolorous, His last will proclaimed for us:
"To the magistrates my head, Eyes to constables," he said, "Ears to judges, when I'm dead;
"To old men my teeth shall fall, Lips to wanton wooers all, And my tongue to wives that brawl.
"Let my feet the bailiffs win, Nostrils the tobacco-men, And fat canons take my skin.
"Voice to singing boys I give, Throat to topers, may they live!
**** to students amative.
"*** on shepherds I bestow, Thistles on divines, and lo!
To the law my shade shall go.
"Elders have my tardy pace, Boys my rude and rustic grace, Monks my simple open face."
He who saith this testament Will not hold, let him be shent; He's an a.s.s by all consent.
La sol fa, He's an a.s.s by all consent, La sol fa mi re ut.
As a third specimen I select a little bit of mixed prose and verse from the _Carmina Burana_, which is curious from its allusion to the Land of c.o.c.kaigne. Goliardic literature, it may be parenthetically observed, has some strong pieces of prose comedy and satire. Of these, the _Ma.s.s of Topers_ and _Ma.s.s of Gamesters_, the _Gospel according to Marks_, and the description of a fat monk's daily life deserve quotation.[34] They are for the most part, however, too profane to bear translation.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 34: Wright's _Rel. Ant._, ii.; _Carm. Bur._, pp. 248 and 22; Wright's _Mapes_, p. xl.]
THE ABBOT OF c.o.c.kAIGNE.
No. 55.
I am the Abbot of c.o.c.kaigne, And this is my counsel with topers; And in the sect of Decius (gamesters) this is my will; And whoso shall seek me in taverns before noon; After evensong shall he go forth naked, And thus, stripped of raiment, shall lament him: Wafna! wafna!
O Fate most foul, what hast thou done?
The joys of man beneath the sun Thou hast stolen, every one!
XXI.
The transition from these trivial and slightly interesting comic songs to poems of a serious import, which played so important a part in Goliardic literature, must of necessity be abrupt. It forms no part of my present purpose to exhibit the Wandering Students in their capacity as satirists. That belongs more properly to a study of the earlier Reformation than to such an inquiry as I have undertaken in this treatise. Satires, especially medieval satires, are apt, besides, to lose their force and value in translation. I have therefore confined myself to five specimens, more or less closely connected with the subjects handled in this study.
The first has the interest of containing some ideas which Villon preserved in his ballad of the men of old time.
DEATH TAKES ALL.
No. 56.
Hear, O thou earth, hear, thou encircling sea, Yea, all that live beneath the sun, hear ye How of this world the bravery and the glory Are but vain forms and shadows transitory, Even as all things 'neath Time's empire show By their short durance and swift overthrow!
Nothing avails the dignity of kings, Naught, naught avail the strength and stuff of things; The wisdom of the arts no succour brings; Genus and species help not at death's hour, No man was saved by gold in that dread stour; The substance of things fadeth as a flower, As ice 'neath suns.h.i.+ne melts into a shower.
Where is Plato, where is Porphyrius?
Where is Tullius, where is Virgilius?
Where is Thales, where is Empedocles, Or ill.u.s.trious Aristoteles?
Where's Alexander, peerless of might?
Where is Hector, Troy's stoutest knight?
Where is King David, learning's light?
Solomon where, that wisest wight?
Where is Helen, and Paris rose-bright?
They have fallen to the bottom, as a stone rolls: Who knows if rest be granted to their souls?
But Thou, O G.o.d, of faithful men the Lord, To us Thy favour evermore afford When on the wicked judgment shall be poured!
The second marks the pa.s.sage from those feelings of youth and spring-time which have been copiously ill.u.s.trated in Sections xiv.-xvii., to emotions befitting later manhood and life's autumn.
AUTUMN YEARS.
