Classic Poem

(Epistre, en forme de ballade, a ses amis)

Have pity on me, have pity I pray,
My friends; may I pray you to grant this grace,
For far from the hawthorn-trees of May
I am flung in this dungeon in this far place
Of exile, by God and by Fate's disgrace.
New married and young; girls, lovers that kneel;
Dancers and jugglers that turn the wheel,
Needle-sharp, quick as a dart each one,
Voiced like the bells 'midst the hills that peal:
Will you leave him like this — the poor Villon?

Singers who sing without law your lay,
Laughing and jovial in words and ways;
Feather-brained folk, yet always gay,
Who run without coin, good or bad, your race,
You have left him too long who is dying apace;
Makers of ballads for tongues to reel,
Where lighting shows not nor breezes steal
Too late you will praise him when he is gone,
Around whom the walls are like bands of steel:
Will you leave him like this — the poor Villon?

Come hither and gaze on his disarray,
Nobles who know not the tax-man's face,
Who homage to kings nor emperors pay,
Only to God in his Paradise.
Behold him who, Sundays and holidays,
Fasts till like rakes his teeth reveal.
Who after crusts, but never a meal,
Water must such till his belly's a tun.
With stool nor bed for his back's appeal:
Will you leave him like this — the poor Villon?

ENVOI

Princes, young, or whom years congeal,
A pardon I pray with the royal seal;
Then hoist me in basket the earth upon.
So even will swine for each other feel,
And rush to help at the hurt one's squeal:
Will you leave him like this — the poor Villon?