| LA MORT ET LE BÛCHERON | DEATH AND THE WOODCUTTER |
| Jean de la Fontaine | trans. Peter Dean |
Un pauvre bûcheron, tout couvert de ramée, Sous le faix du fagot aussi bien que des ans Gémissant et courbé marchait à pas pesants, Et tâchait de gagner sa chaumine enfumée. Enfin, n'en pouvant plus d'effort et de douleur, Il met bas son fagot, il songe à son malheur. Quel plaisir a-t-il eu depuis qu'il est au monde? En est-il un plus pauvre en la machine ronde? Point de pain quelquefois, et jamais de repos. Sa femme, ses enfants, les soldats, les impôts, Le créancier et la corvée, Lui font d'un malheureux la peinture achevée. Il appelle la mort; elle vient sans tarder, Lui demande ce qu'il faut faire. "C'est," dit-il, "afin de m'aider À recharger ce bois; tu ne tarderas guère." Le trépas vient tout guérir; Mais ne bougeons d'où nous sommes. Plutôt souffrir que mourir, C'est la devise des hommes. | A poor woodcutter, cluttered up with leaves, With weight of bundled twigs, no less of years, Was plodding homewards, grumbling, bent under his cares, Aiming to reach his smoky fireside eaves. At last, devoid of strength and full of pain, He sets his bundle down, thinks of his lot again. What pleasure has he had whilst he’s been here on earth? Is there anyone on this sphere of such little worth? Not a crumb to eat sometimes, no rest. Those are the facts. What with wife, what with kids, what with troops, what with tax, What with debt and duty imposition, They form for him a final miserable position. He calls on Death. He comes in the flash of an eye, Asks him what there is to do. "Well, if you’d be so kind, I Would like this wood resettled: take you only a mo." Death provides a cure for all; But let’s keep our present spot: Suffering’s better than to fall, Is what men have always thought. |