| BALLADE ET ORAISON | BALADE AND PRAYER |
| François Villon | tr. Peter Dean |
|
Pere Noé, qui plantastes la vigne, Vous aussi, Loth, qui bustes ou rocher Par tel party qu'Amours, qui gens engingne, De voz filles si vous fist approucher - Pas ne le dy pour le vous reproucher -, Archedeclin qui bien seustes cest art, Tous trois vous pry que vous vueilliez prescher 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 luy sceust pot des mains arracher; De bien boire ne feut oncques fetart. Nobles seigneurs, ne souffrez empescher L'ame du bon feu maistre Jehan Cotart. Comme homme beu qui chancelle et trepigne L'ay veu souvent, quant il s'alloit coucher, Et une foiz il se fist une bigne, Bien m'en souvient, pour la pie juchier. Brief, on n'eust sceu en ce monde sercher Meilleur pïon, pour boire tost et tart. Faictes 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 du bon feu maistre Jehan Cotart. |
O father, old Noah, who planted the vine and you as well, Lot, who drank in the cave, by such events, which do men undermine, did Love make you and your daughters misbehave (it’s not to blame you that I pen this stave), Architriclinus, known for this afar, all three of us plead with you that you save the soul of the late master John Cotart. He is descended from your line, he who drank only of the best, from which he’d little profit to consign - for sure he was a boozer above the rest. You couldn’t rob him of his pint of wine and he wasn’t slow at downing a jar. My noble lords, I beg, do not resign the soul of the late master John Cotart. I’ve often seen him drunk as any nine lords - begging their pardons - stagger and reel to bed. One night he gave himself a fine bruise, arguing with a butcher’s block for real! In short, you’d have to search about a deal to find one better at propping up a bar. So make it welcome, when to prayers you steal - the soul of the late master John Cotart. Prince, his spit scarce reached ground it was so dry: non-stop he’d moan: "I could kill for a jar!" It knew not how his thirst to satisfy - the soul of the late master John Cotart. |
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Trans. Copyright © Peter Dean 2003