| AUTRE BALLADE | ANOTHER BALLADE |
| François Villon | tr. Peter Dale |
|
Icy se clost le testament Et finist du pauvre Villon. Venez a son enterrement Quant vous orrez le carillon Vestus rouge com vermillon Car en amours mourut martir. Ce jura il sur son couillon Quant de ce monde voult partir. Et je croy bien que pas n'en ment, Car chassié fut comme ung souillon De ses amours hayneusement Tant que d'icy a Roussillon Brosse 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'ung haillon; Qui plus, en mourant, mallement L'espoignoit d'amours l'esguillon, Plus agu que le ranguillon D'ung baudrier luy faisoit sentir - C'est de quoy nous esmerveillon - Quant de ce monde voult partir. Prince, gent comme esmerillon, Sachiez qu'il fist au departir. Ung traict but de vin morillon Quant de ce monde voult partir. |
Herewith poor Villon's testament Comes to the end. When next you hear The passing bell, come and lament In loudest red behind the bier. For love he died a martyr here. He testified that this was so On his one ball, and so sincere, When from this world he wished to go. I think this was no lie but meant, For, like a scullion, chased in sheer Spite from amours of his, he went, So that, to Roussillon from here, Was neither bush nor briar - it's clear He spun no yarn - that didn't show Shreds of his coat as souvenir When from this world he wished to go. Those are the facts of the event: He died in rags. Further, I fear, As he lay dying, almost spent, Love whipped him up again in sheer Pain from its buckle-tongue. (And here We register some doubt.) In woe And agony it cost him dear, When from this world he wished to go. Prince, gentle as a merlin, hear What last he did while still below: He swigged his wine, dark red and clear, When from this world he wished to go. |
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Trans. Copyright © Peter Dale 1978, 2001 - publ. Anvil Press
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