| BALLADE ET ORAISON | BALLADE AND PRAYER |
| François Villon | tr. Andrew Davidson |
|
Pere Noé, qui plantastes la vingne, Vous aussi, Loth, qui bustes ou rocher Par tel party qu'Amours, qui gens engingne, De vos filles si vous fist approucher - Pas ne le dy pour le vous reproucher -, Archetriclin, qui bien seustes cet art, Tous troys vous pry qu’o vous vuelliez perchier L’ame du bon feu maistre Jehan Cotart. Jadis extraict il fut de vostre ligne, Lui qui buvoit du meilleur et plus cher, Et ne deust il avoir vaillant ung pigne: Certes, sur tous, c'estoit ung bon archer! On ne lui sceut pot des mains arracher: De bien boire ne feust oncques fetart. Nobles seigneurs, ne souffrez empescher L'ame du bon feu maistre Jehan Cotart. Comme homme viel qui chancelle et trespigne L'ay veu souvent, quant il s'alloit coucher, Et une foiz il se fist une bigne - Bien m'en souvent - a l’etal dung bouchier. Brief, on n'eust sceu en ce monde sercher Meilleur pïon, pour boire tost et tart. Faites entrer, quant vous orrez hucher, L'ame du bon feu maistre Jehan Cotart. Prince, il n'eust sceu jusqu'a terre cracher. Tousjours crioit: "Haro! La gorge m'art!" Et si ne sceust onc sa seuf estancher L'ame due bon feu maistre Jehan Cotart. |
Come, Noah, our great benefactor, said To be the first to cultivate the vine; Come, Lot, by darkness and strong wine misled To know thy daughters - through no fault of thine; Come, Master of the Feast, whose palate fine Discerned the Saviour's vintage as the best; All three suspend awhile your draughts divine And bring the soul of Jean Cottard to rest. In sooth he was a toper born and bred, A worthy scion of your noble line. In threadbare clothes, unkempt and underfed, He ordered nothing but the finest wine. His fingers round the handle did so twine That none could tear the flagon from his breast. Then, Masters, come ye forth with smiles benign And bring the soul of Jean Cottard to rest. When I beheld him going to his bed His footsteps always traced a crooked line And once, as I recall, he bruised his head By striking it against a butcher's sign. In all the world not three men could combine To whet their whistle with so great a zest. To his halloo your sacred ears incline, And bring the soul of Jean Cottard to rest. Lord Jesus, though he drank not gall or brine, "My throat is burning!", he would roar in jest. Receive the raging thirst his bones enshrine And bring the soul of Jean Cottard to rest. |
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Trans. Copyright © Andrew Davidson 2005