Francois Villon (1431 - 1463)

Ballade

I know flies in milk,
I know the man by what he wears,
I know fair weather from foul,
I know the apple from the tree,
I know the tree by the look of the sap,
I know when all things are the same,
I know who labors and who loafs,
I know all things except myself.

I know the doublet by the collar,
I know the monk by the cowl,
I know the master by the servant,
I know the nun by the veil,
I know when hustlers start their spiel,
I know delinquents raised on cream,
I know the wine by the barrel,
I know all things except myself.

I know the horse and the mule,
I know their limit and their load,
I know Beatrice and Belle,
I know beads that count and add,
I know sleep and I know dreams,
I know the Bohemians' heresy,
I know the power of Rome,
I know all things except myself.

Prince, I know everything in brief,
I know the red-cheeked and the pale,
I know Death who devours all,
I know all things except myself.


The Testament (excerpt at line 841)

I give and leave my body
to the Earth our great mother,
the worms won't find much meat on it
so fiercely did hunger make war:
let it quickly be given her,
from Earth it came, to Earth it goes,
all things unless they stray too far
gladly return to their own place.


The Testament (excerpt at line 1848)

To wit, anywhere in this will,
should there be any difficulty
to pare it like an apple peel
I do give him authority.

To gloss it and annotate it,
to define it and fill it in,
to shorten it and to stretch it out,
to cross it off and to annul it,
With his own hand, and if he can't write,
to interpret it and to give it sense,
for better or for worse, as he sees fit,
to all this I do here consent.


The Testament (excerpt at line 1876)

I will and at my grave
the following words and only these
be written in great big letters
and if there's no writing tool
use charcoal or a lump of coal
trying not to scratch the plaster,
at least a memory of me will remain
such as it may be of a wild one:

Here lies and sleeps in this garret
one slain by love's spur
a poor wretched scholar
who was named Francois Villon,
he never owned a furrow on Earth,
he gave it all away, everyone knows,
tables, chairs, bread, basket,
before God, say in these verses:

Rest eternal grant him,
Lord, and everlasting light,
the price of a plate or a bowl
he never had, nor of a parsley sprig,
he was shaved, head, beard and eyebrows
like some turnip you scrape or peel,
rest eternal.


translated from the French by Galway Kinnell