| AUTRE BALLADE - DE CONCLUSION | ANOTHER BALADE |
| François Villon | tr. Peter Dean |
|
Icy se clost le testament Et finist du povre Villon Venez a son enterrement, Quand vous orez le carrillon, Vestuz rouge come vermeillon, Car en amours mourut martir; Ce jura il sur son coullon, Quant de ce monde voult partir. Et je croy bien que pas n'en ment; Car chassié fut comme ung soullon, De ses amours hayneusement, Tant que, d'icy a Roussillon Brosses n'y a ne brossillon Qui n'eust, ce dit il sans mentir, Ung lambeau de son cotillon, Quant de ce monde voult partir. Il est ainsi et tellement : Quant mourut n'avoit qu'un haillon; Qui plus, en mourant, mallement L'espoignoit d'Amours l'esguillon; Plus agu que le ranguillon D'ung baudrier lui faisoit sentir - C'est de quoy nous esmerveillon -, Quant de ce monde voult partir. Prince gent comme esmerillon, Saichiez qu'il fist au departir: Ung traict but de vin morillon, Quant de ce monde voult partir. |
Thus finishes the Testament Of poor old Villon. When you hear The church bell ringing out it’s meant To invite your presence at his bier. But find your brightest clothes to wear To signify he died of love - His one good ball will testify here As from this world he goes above. And well I know, he doesn’t lie About this. Like a clod has he Been chased by his exes low and high, So much that Roussillon-wards no tree Or bush or shrub there is that’s free From strands of him, his shirt or glove - He tells you this quite honestly As from this world he goes above. That’s how he was; and it was thus That when he died, he died in rags. Yes - irony! Iniquitous! Just as he dies, Love’s sharp goad drags At him, worse than the claws of hags Or cross-belt’s edge - life’s cut and shove! If this amazes, no-one brags As from this world he goes above. O Prince, o merlin soft and fine, Know that he leaves all here with love And drinks a draught of blood-red wine As from this world he goes above. |
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Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2003