BALLADE DE LA GROSSE MARGOTBALLADE: FAT MARGOT
François Villontr. Peter Dean
Se j'ayme et sers la belle de bon het,
M'en devez vous tenir ne vil ne sot?
Elle a en soy des biens affin soubzhet;
Pour son amour seins boucler et passot.
Quant viennent gens, je cours et happe ung pot,
Au vin m'en voys, sans demener grant bruyt;
Je leur tens eaue, froumaige, pain et fruyt.
S'ilz paient bien, je leur diz: "Bene stat,
Retournez cy, quant vous serez en ruyt,
En ce bordeau ou tenons nostre estat."

Mais adoncques, il y a grant deshet,
Quant sans argent s'en vient coucher Mergot;
Voir ne la puis, mon cueur a mort la het.
Sa robe prens, demy seint et seurcot,
Sy luy jure qu'il tendra pour l'escot.
Par les costez se prent, c'est Antecrist,
Crye et jure, par la mort Jhesucrist
Que non fera. Lors empoingne ung esclat,
Dessus son nez lui en faiz ung escript,
En ce bordeau ou tenons nostre estat.

Puis paix se fait, et me fait ung groz pet,
Plus enffle qu'un velimeux escarbot.
Riant, m'assiet son poing sur mon sommet,
Gogo me dit, et me fiert le jambot;
Tous deux yvres dormons comme ung sabot.
Et au resveil, quant le ventre lui bruyt,
Monte sur moy, que ne gaste son fruyt,
Soubz elle geins, plus qu'un aiz me fait plat;
De paillarder tout elle me destruyt,
En ce bordeau ou tenons nostre estat.

Vente, gresle, gesle, j'ay mon pain cuyt.
Je suis paillart, la paillarde me suyt.
Lequel vault mieulx? Chascun bien s'entressuyt,
L'un vault l'autre, c'est a mau rat mau chat.
Ordure aimons, ordure nous affuyt;
Nous deffuyons honneur, il nous deffuyt,
En ce bordeau ou tenons nostre estat.
If I should love and serve my lady well
is that a reason you should find me mad?
She’s the bee’s knees as far as I can tell:
I’d take up arms for her love and be glad.
When folk come in I scurry round the pad
with jugs and wine, as quiet as you please.
I bring them bread and water, fruit and cheese,
and if they pay well, "Bene stat", I say,
"Do come again, do come and take your ease
at our little brothel, trading every day."

But sometimes don’t we have a flaming row
when little Margot turns in penniless!
I simply hate her, cannot stand the cow.
I grab her coat, her petticoat and dress
and vow I’ll trade them in for more - or less.
Arms folded, "Here’s the Anti-Christ," cries she
and swears by Jesus’ death this will not be.
At this I land her one to make her pray
some more, and on her nose some two or three -
at our little brothel, trading every day.

Then peace descends, she blows me a great fart -
no dung-beetle was ever stuffed so full.
Laughing she sits astride my private part,
"Go! Go!" she says and works me like a bull ...
Both of us drunk - we sleep out of our skull
and, waking, when her quim begins to stir
she mounts me - I mustn’t miss a taste of her!
I groan beneath her, flattened like the hay.
Her shagging’ll be the death of me, I swear,
at our little brothel, trading every day.

Vile wind, or hail, or ice, my bread is baked.
I love to fuck; with her I fuck I’m slaked.
Let who knows better, do. It can’t be faked.
Level pegging’s between us. Here to stay.
On us the shit we love falls and is raked.
No bogus dignity for us. We’ve never quaked
at our little brothel, trading every day.

Click here 2 for another translation of this poem.

Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2002


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