From The Testament: Another Ballade

[Ballade in Old French]

Now whether it’s the holy Pope,
The alb, the amice his attire,
Who girds on just the stole and cope
To seize the devil’s throat, afire
With ill intent – a do-and-dier,
Just like the servants in his pay,
One gust and gone like any squire.
That much the wind blows right away.

Yes, or that lord of golden grope,
Constantinople’s, or, none higher,
The noble king of France, past hope
In fame for other king or sire,
Who founded convent, church and choir
For God’s great glory. Though, in his day,
As honoured as he could desire,
That much the wind blows right away.

Whether Grenoble’s, Vienne’s hope,
The Dauphin, the brave, the flier;
Or Doles, Dijon, Salins; the scope
Of great men and the lines they sire;
The same goes for the men they hire,
Trumpeters, heralds, lackeys, they
Stuffed, didn’t they, all they’d desire?
That much the wind blows right away.

Princes are destined to expire
And all the living go that way.
If this upsets or raises ire,
That much the wind blows right away.

Translated by Peter Dale

François Villon was born in Paris in 1431. His life was blighted by destitution and ill health, robbery and murder, torture and exile. While we do not know what became of Villon after his 32nd year, the poems he produced in just six years capture in forceful, intelligent and candid verse the low and high life of Paris. They constitute a body of work with few rivals in the literature of his own country or in that of any other. His work was greatly admired by Ezra Pound, who ranked him with Sappho and Catullus in his pantheon of great lyric poets.

Peter Dale has revised his translations for this new edition.