combatting normality

 

BALLADE OF THE LADIES OF BYGONE TIMES
from THE TESTAMENT (1462)

Tell me from where I could entice
Flora the famous Roman whore,
or Archipiad or Thaice
who they say was just as fair;
or Echo answering everywhere
across stream and pool and mere,
whose beauty was like none before -
where are the snows of yesteryear ?

Where is the learned Héloïse
for whose love Abelard became
a gelded monk at Saint-Denis,
yet still could not put out his flame ?
And where now is that royal dame
who had men for three days with her
then had them cast into the Seine ?
Where are the snows of yesteryear ?

Queen Blanche who had a siren's voice,
white as a lily on the plain;
Big-Footed Bertha, by Heaven's choice
mother of great Charlemagne;
and Joan of Arc from proud Lorraine
the English burned from cruel fear -
where are they, where, O Mother of Men ?
Where are the snows of yesteryear ?

Don't ask, Prince, in one month again,
nor yet in twelve where they all are;
I'd only give you this refrain:
Where are the snows of yesteryear ?

other translations

 

THE OLD WOMAN LONGING FOR THE DAYS OF HER YOUTH
(THE LAMENT OF THE "BELLE HËAULMIÈRE")
from THE TESTAMENT (1462)

I thought I heard the whore complain
who sold helmets as a cover-trade,
wishing the days would come again
when she was young; and this she said:-

"Old age, a cruel trick you've played!
Why have you struck me down so soon ?
Who'll care now if I put paid
to a life so long past its high noon ?

"You've robbed me, left me in the lurch,
taken my beauty and power away.
Businessmen, men of the Church
don't give me all they have today.

"No man was born who would not pay
all that he had to get that prize
(with some misgiving, I daresay)
which even beggars now despise.

"Many a man I could have had
but turned down in my dizziness
for true love of a crafty lad
I showered with limitless largesse.
I was unfaithful once or twice -
but Christ! I loved him - love him yet.
He only gave me churlishness
and loved only what he could get.

"He could have dragged me through the mud
and trampled on me - I would still
have worshipped him. Had he drawn blood
and maimed me, I'd have done his will.
I'd be in misery until
he ordered me to kiss him. Swine!
I was nothing but his swill -
and all I can do now is whine.

"Shame and sin are all I've left
for thirty years now since he died.
And I live on, old, grey, bereft,
brooding on my prime and pride.
Now look at me - I'm shrunk and dried,
and when I see how I have changed,
ravaged now by time and tide,
the undertow leaves me deranged.

"Where is that forehead's smooth expanse,
the arched eyebrows and golden hair,
the wide-set eyes, the pretty glance
which caught the wiliest unaware;
that well-proportioned nose, that pair
of little ears, that dimpled chin,
that lovely face so clear and fair
with lips of pure vermilion ?

"Those long arms, shoulders slim and straight,
fine hands, breasts small and eloquent,
hips high, smooth, full, in perfect state
to enter in Love's tournament;
where are the broad loins and the cunt
between each firm and rounded thigh
set like a lovely ornament
within its little herbary ?

"My forehead's wrinkled now, and grey
my hair; my eyebrows droop; my eyes
are bleary now whose glance was gay
and drained men's purses with their flies.
There's none a hook-nose will entice
or ears that hang like lumps of moss;
my face is faded, dead as ice;
my chin and lips like withered pods.

"So this is human beauty's lot -
hands like claws and stumpy arms,
shoulders gnarled up in a knot -
not a trace of former charms.

"Breasts and hips mere shrunken forms;
my cunt is a long-dried-up spring
my thighs no more than bony worms
all mottled like a sausage-skin.

"And so we mourn the 'good old days',
poor old fools that we are now,
squatting by a feeble blaze
of straw, like tattered heaps of tow -
so soon aflame, so soon burned low.
Once we were so proud and gay,
beautiful from top to toe.
All flesh is heir to such decay."

Fanciful statue of François Villon
Utrecht, Netherlands.

VILLON'S DIALOGUE WITH HIS HEART

Who's there ? It's me. Who's "me" ? Your heart,
that holds on by the merest thread;
I feel my blood ebb and my strength depart
when I see you hanging down your head
like some poor lurcher cringing in a shed.
And why is that ? Because you live too fast.
So what ? It's I who come off worst.
Why, you ask ? I'll think about it. Let me be!
When will you start thinking ? When my childhood's past.
I'll say no more. That's quite all right with me.

What do you want ? To be a man of substance.
You're thirty now. No younger than a mule.
Is that still childhood ? No. Then madness
has got hold of you/ Where ? By the lapel ?
You know nothing. Yes I do: I can tell
the difference between flies and milk. One's white,
one's black. Is that all ? Is that too trite
for you ? I'll start again. Let's see..
You're lost. Well, I'll put up a fight.
I'll say no more. That's quite all right with me.

From all this I get sorrow, you get pain.
If you had been some poor demented fool
I might have had some reason to complain,
but good and bad you wind from the same spool.
Either your head is filled with wool
or else you want damnation more than bliss.
Well, what is your reply to this ?
I'll be above it when I pass away.
God, how comforting! What wisdom and what eloquence!
I'll say no more. That's quite all right with me.

Where do your defects come from ? From ill-luck.
When Saturn packed my bag for me
he put them in. What rubbish! You're star-struck.
You are master yet think yourself unfree.
Solomon has written - you can see
it in the Bible - 'Men of sense
have power over planets and their influence'.
I don't believe it. As they made me, so I'll be.
What did you say ? Just my kind of sense.
I'll say no more. That's quite all right with me.

You want to live ? May God give me the power!
You must then... What ?! Read every hour,
be penitent. Read what ? Philosophy -
and leave your trivial friends. I'll see.
Now don't forget. Don't be perverse;
don't wait so long that things get even worse.
I'll say no more. That's quite all right with me.

TWO TRANSLATIONS OF VILLON
INTO LATE-19th CENTURY CANT
by
William Ernest Henley
(1849-1903, English poet, critic and author)

from: John S. Farmer's Canting Songs and Slang Rhymes

VILLON'S GOOD NIGHT

I

You bible-sharps that thump on tubs, false clerics
You lurkers on the Abram-sham, beggar feigning sickness
You sponges miking round the pubs, cadgers loafing
You flymy titters fond of flam, saucy girls; trivial things
You judes that clobber for the stramm, women dress; game
You ponces good at talking tall,
With fawneys on your dexter famm - rings; right hand
A mot's good-night to one and all! whore's

II

Likewise you molls that flash your bubs whores
For swells to spot and stand you sam, pay for
You bleeding bonnets, pugs, and subs, gamblers' decoys; boxers
You swatchel-coves that pitch and slam. Punch-and-Judy-men
You magsmen bold that work the cram, pattering tradesman; crowd
You flats and joskins great and small, marsh-dwellers & country bumpkins
Gay grass-widows and lawful-jam - wife
A mot's good-night to one and all!

III

For you, you coppers, narks, and dubs, police-informers; warders
Who pinched me when upon the snam, when I was thieving
And gave me mumps and mulligrubs "the blues"
With skilly and swill that made me clam, refuse food
At you I merely lift my gam - leg
I drink your health against the wall! piss
That is the sort of man I am,
A mot's good-night to one and all!

The Farewell

Paste 'em, and larrup 'em, and lamm!
Give Kennedy, and make 'em crawl! thrash them and make them stir
I do not care one bleeding damn,
A mot's good-night to one and all!

 

Ballade de Bonne Doctrine (1461)
VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES
"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles..."

See Notes below for translation of the translation!

I

Suppose you screeve, or go cheap-jack ?
  Or fake the broads ? or fig a nag ?
Or thimble-rig ? or knap a yack ?
  Or pitch a snide ? or smash a rag ?
  Suppose you duff ? or nose and lag ?
Or get the straight, and land your pot ?
  How do you melt the multy swag ?
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

II

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
  Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
  Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag;
  Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot
  You cannot bank a single stag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

III

Suppose you try a different tack,
  And on the square you flash your flag ?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
  Or with the mummers mug and gag ?
  For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag
At any graft, no matter what!
  Your merry goblins soon stravag:
Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

The Moral

It's up-the-spout and Charley-Wag
  With wipes and tickers and what not!
Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
  Booze and the blowens cop the lot.