Ballads and Lyrics of Old France.
by Andrew Lang.
BALLADS.
The originals of the French folk-songs here translated are to be found in the collections of MM. De Puymaigre and Gerard de Nerval, and in the report of M. Ampere.
The verses called a "Lady of High Degree" are imitated from a very early _chanson_ in Bartsch"s collection.
The Greek ballads have been translated with the aid of the French versions by M. Fauriel.
SPRING.
CHARLES D"ORLEANS, 13911465.
The new-liveried year.-_Sir Henry Wotton_.
THE year has changed his mantle cold Of wind, of rain, of bitter air; And he goes clad in cloth of gold, Of laughing suns and season fair; No bird or beast of wood or wold But doth with cry or song declare The year lays down his mantle cold.
All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled, The pleasant summer livery wear, With silver studs on broidered vair; The world puts off its raiment old, The year lays down his mantle cold.
RONDEL.
CHARLES D"ORLEANS, 13911465.
To his Mistress, to succour his heart that is beleaguered by jealousy.
STRENGTHEN, my Love, this castle of my heart, And with some store of pleasure give me aid, For Jealousy, with all them of his part, Strong siege about the weary tower has laid.
Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid, Too weak to make his cruel force depart, Strengthen at least this castle of my heart, And with some store of pleasure give me aid.
Nay, let not Jealousy, for all his art Be master, and the tower in ruin laid, That still, ah Love! thy gracious rule obeyed.
Advance, and give me succour of thy part; Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart.
RONDEL.
FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460
GOODBYE! the tears are in my eyes; Farewell, farewell, my prettiest; Farewell, of women born the best; Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes.
Farewell! with many vows and sighs My sad heart leaves you to your rest; Farewell! the tears are in my eyes; Farewell! from you my miseries Are more than now may be confessed, And most by thee have I been blessed, Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs; Goodbye! the last of my goodbyes.
ARBOR AMORIS.
FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460
I HAVE a tree, a graft of Love, That in my heart has taken root; Sad are the buds and blooms thereof, And bitter sorrow is its fruit; Yet, since it was a tender shoot, So greatly hath its shadow spread, That underneath all joy is dead, And all my pleasant days are flown, Nor can I slay it, nor instead Plant any tree, save this alone.
Ah, yet, for long and long enough My tears were rain about its root, And though the fruit be harsh thereof, I scarcely looked for better fruit Than this, that carefully I put In garner, for the bitter bread Whereon my weary life is fed: Ah, better were the soil unsown That bears such growths; but Love instead Will plant no tree, but this alone.
Ah, would that this new spring, whereof The leaves and flowers flush into shoot, I might have succour and aid of Love, To prune these branches at the root, That long have borne such bitter fruit, And graft a new bough, comforted With happy blossoms white and red; So pleasure should for pain atone, Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead Plant any tree, but this alone.
L"ENVOY.
Princess, by whom my hope is fed, My heart thee prays in lowlihead To prune the ill boughs overgrown, Nor slay Love"s tree, nor plant instead Another tree, save this alone.
BALLAD OF THE GIBBET.
An epitaph in the form of a ballad that Francois Villon wrote of himself and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.
BROTHERS and men that shall after us be, Let not your hearts be hard to us: For pitying this our misery Ye shall find G.o.d the more piteous.
Look on us six that are hanging thus, And for the flesh that so much we cherished How it is eaten of birds and perished, And ashes and dust fill our bones" place, Mock not at us that so feeble be, But pray G.o.d pardon us out of His grace.
Listen, we pray you, and look not in scorn, Though justly, in sooth, we are cast to die; Ye wot no man so wise is born That keeps his wisdom constantly.
Be ye then merciful, and cry To Mary"s Son that is piteous, That His mercy take no stain from us, Saving us out of the fiery place.
We are but dead, let no soul deny To pray G.o.d succour us of His grace.
The rain out of heaven has washed us clean, The sun has scorched us black and bare, Ravens and rooks have pecked at our eyne, And feathered their nests with our beards and hair.
Round are we tossed, and here and there, This way and that, at the wild wind"s will, Never a moment my body is still; Birds they are busy about my face.
Live not as we, nor fare as we fare; Pray G.o.d pardon us out of His grace.
L"ENVOY.
Prince Jesus, Master of all, to thee We pray h.e.l.l gain no mastery, That we come never anear that place; And ye men, make no mockery, Pray G.o.d pardon us out of His grace.
HYMN TO THE WINDS.