Black as a berry, drear and dwined,
Coin, land, and goods, gone every whit;
Whilst those by kindred to me knit,
The due of Nature all forgot,

To disavow me have seen fit,

For lack of pelf to pay the scot.

When I of poverty complain,

Ofttimes my heart to me hath said,
"Man, wherefore murmur thus in vain?
If thou hast no such plentihead
As had Jacques Coeur, be comforted:
Better to live and rags to wear,

Than to have been a lord, and dead,
Rot in a splendid sepulchre."

(Than to have been a lord! I say.
Alas, no longer is he one:
As the Psalm tells of it,-to-day

His place of men is all unknown.)
As for the rest, affair 'tis none
Of mine, that but a sinner be:

To theologians alone

The case belongs, and not to me.

For I am not, as well I know,

An angel's son, that crowned with light Among the starry heavens doth go:

My sire is dead-God have his spright!
His body's buried out of sight.

I know my mother too must die,—

She knows it too, poor soul, aright,And soon her son by her must lie.

I know full well that rich and poor,
Villein and noble, high and low,
Laymen and clerks, gracious and dour,
Wise men and foolish, sweet of show
Or foul of favor, dames that go

Ruffed and rebatoed, great or small,

High-tired or hooded,- Death (I know) Without exception seizes all.

Paris or Helen though one be.

Who dies, in pain and drearihead,

For lack of breath and blood dies he,

His gall upon his heart is shed:

Then doth he sweat, God knows how dread A sweat, and none there is to allay

His ills; child, kinsman, in his stead
None will go bail for him that day.

Death makes him shiver and turn pale,
Sharpens his nose and swells his veins,
Puffs up his throat, makes his flesh fail,
His joints and nerves greatens and strains.
Fair women's bodies, soft as skeins

Of silk, so tender, smooth and rare,

Must you too suffer all these pains?

Ay, or alive to heaven fare.

BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LADIES

TELLE

ELL me where, in what land of shade,
Bides fair Flora of Rome, and where
Are Thaïs and Archipiade,

Cousins-german of beauty rare,

And Echo, more than mortal fair, That when one calls by the river-flow Or marish, answers out of the air? But what is become of last year's snow?

Where did the learn'd Heloïsa vade,

For whose sake Abelard might not spare

(Such dole for love on him was laid)

Manhood to lose and a cowl to wear?

And where is the queen who willed whilere That Buridan, tied in a sack, should go

Floating down Seine from the turret-stair? But what is become of last year's snow?

Blanche, too, the lily-white queen, that made
Sweet music as if she a siren were;
Broad-foot Bertha; and Joan the maid,
The good Lorrainer, the English bare
Captive to Rouen and burned her there;
Beatrix, Eremburge, Alys,-lo!

Where are they, Virgin debonair?
But what is become of last year's snow?

ENVOI

Prince, you may question how they fare
This week, or liefer this year, I trow:
Still shall the answer this burden bear,
But what is become of last year's snow?

BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LORDS

No. I

(Following on the Same Subject)

HERE is Calixtus, third of the name,

WHE That died in the purple whiles ago,

Four years since he to the tiar came?

And the King of Arragon, Alfonso?

The Duke of Bourbon, sweet of show, And the Duke Arthur of Brittaine?

And Charles the Seventh, the Good? Heigho! But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

Likewise the King of Scots, whose shame
Was the half of his face (or folk say so),
Vermeil as amethyst held to the flame,
From chin to forehead all of a glow?
The King of Cyprus, of friend and foe
Renowned; and the gentle King of Spain,
Whose name, God 'ield me, I do not know?
But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

Of many more might I ask the same,

Who are but dust that the breezes blow;

But I desist, for none may claim

To stand against Death, that lays all low:
Yet one more question before I go,-

Where is Lancelot, King of Behaine?

And where are his valiant ancestors, trow? But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

ENVOI

Where is Du Guesclin, the Breton prow?

Where Auvergne's Dauphin, and where again

The late good Duke of Alençon? Lo!

But where is the doughty Charlemaine?

BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LORDS

No. 2

HERE are the holy apostles gone,

WHE

Alb-clad and amice-tired and stoled
With the sacred tippet and that alone,

Wherewith, when he waxeth overbold,

The foul fiend's throttle they take and hold?

All must come to the selfsame bay;

Sons and servants, their days are told:

The wind carries their like away.

Where is he now that held the throne

Of Constantine with the hands of gold ?
And the King of France, o'er all kings known
For grace and worship that was extolled,
Who convents and churches manifold

Built for God's service? In their day
What of the honor they had? Behold,
The wind carries their like away.

Where are the champions every one,

The Dauphins, the counselors young and old?

The barons of Salins, Dôl, Dijon,

Vienne, Grenoble ? They all are cold.

Or take the folk under their banners enrolled,—

Pursuivants, trumpeters, heralds, (hey!

How they fed of the fat, and the flagon trolled!) — The wind carries their like away.

ENVOI

Princes to death are all foretold,

Even as the humblest of their array:

Whether they sorrow or whether they scold,
The wind carries their like away.

BALLAD OF THE WOMEN OF PARIS

TH

HOUGH folk deem women young and old
Of Venice and Genoa well eno'

Favored with speech, both glib and bold,
To carry messages to and fro;
Savoyards, Florentines less or mo',

Romans and Lombards though folk renown,—

I, at my peril, I say no:

There's no right speech out of Paris town.

The Naples women (so we are told)

Can school all comers in speech and show;
Prussians and Germans were still extolled

For pleasant prattle of friend and foe;
But hail they from Athens or Grand Cairo,
Castile or Hungary, black or brown,

Greeks or Egyptians, high or low.

There's no right speech out of Paris town.

Switzers nor Bretons know how to scold,
Nor Provence nor Gascony women: lo!
Two fishfags in Paris the bridge that hold
Would slang them dumb in a minute or so.
Picardy, England, Lorraine, (heigho!

Enough of places have I set down?)

Valenciennes, Calais, wherever you go,
There's no right speech out of Paris town.

ENVOI

Prince, to the Paris ladies, I trow,

For pleasant parlance I yield the crown.
They may talk of Italians; but this I know,
There's no right speech out of Paris town.

BALLAD THAT VILLON MADE AT THE REQUEST OF HIS MOTHER, WHEREWITHAL TO DO HER HOMAGE

TO OUR LADY

ADY of heaven, Regent of the earth,
Empress of all the infernal marshes fell,
Receive me, thy poor Christian, 'spite my dearth,
In the fair midst of thine elect to dwell;
Albeit my lack of grace I know full well:
For that thy grace, my Lady and my Queen,
Aboundeth more than all my misdemean,

Withouten which no soul of all that sigh
May merit heaven. 'Tis sooth I say, for e'en
In this belief I will to live and die.

Say to thy Son I am his, that by his birth
And death my sins be all redeemable;