Monique Morelli - Villon - The legacy

Original Title: "L'an quatre cent cinquante six (Le Lais)"
Text: François Villon
Music: Lino Léonardi
Year: 1974
Quite a difficult translation, will need a rework

Year Fourteen hundred fifty six
I, François Villon, student
Considered, having stale sense,
The bit between the teeth, being straightforward
That we must advise his work ,
Like Vegetius says
Wise Roman, big conseillor
Or else we are mistaken ...

In those times, I talked about,
Around Christmas, dead seasons,
That the wolves live of the wind,
And that we hold ourself in our home
For the wintry weather, near the brand
Come to me the desire to break
The very loving prison
Which always was unbreaking my heart

I did it in such a way
Seeing her in front of my eyes
Agreeing to my undoing
Without anything being better for her
Of which I mourn and complain to the sky
By requesting vengeance of her
To all the victorious gods
And alleviation of the love grief

And if I took in my favor
Those sweet regrets and pretty pretenses
Of very disappointing taste,
Piercing through me up to the sides
Fine they have their white feet towards me
And fail me when in great need
Seed, I must, other complaints
And hit in another corner

The look of That one took me
Who was perfedious and tough to me
Without this would have any contempt
Wants and commands that I endure
Death and that I do not last anymore
If I see no other assistance but in fleeing
Break up the keen binding
Without hearing my pious regrets!

To obviate to those dangers
The best for me is, I believe, to go away
Farewell! I'm going to Angers
As she does not want to grant me
Her grace, nor abandoning me
By her, die the healthy limbs
Deep inside, I am a martyr lover
Among the loving saints!

Monique Morelli - François Villon - Epistle to my friends

Original Title: "Epître à mes amis"
Year: 1974

Have pity, have pity of me
At least, please, my friends
In grave I lie down, not under holy nor may
In that exile to which I am sent
By Fortune, like it was allowed by God
Girls liking young people and new
Dancers, jumpers, making the calf's foot²
Vivacious like javelins, sharp like stings
Ringing throat clear like bells³

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

Cantors singing at leisure, without law,
Gallants laughing, pleasing in facts and words,
Itinerant merchant going frank with fake gold, of alloy,
People of spirit, a little scatterbrain,
Resurrect too much because he dies in the meanwhile
Maker of lays, of motets and rondeaux,
When dead will be, you will make him chaudeaux*
Where he lays down, no lightning nor whirlwind enters
With thick walls his bandages have been made

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

Come to see him in that pitiful equipage
Noble men, free of quarter and tenth**,
Who hold nothing of Emperor nor King
But only of God of Paradise
To go without food he needs on Sundays and Tuesdays
Whose teeth has longer than rake
After dry bread, not after cakes
In his bowels pours water gushing out
Deep in ground, table has not nor trestles

Named princes, old, striplings,
Obtain me pardon and royal seals.
And carry me up in some basket
As the pigs do, to one another
Because, where one brays, they run away in a heap

Would you leave him there, the poor Villon?

²Lifting the leg of a comical way when dancing
³Cascaveaux could be the bells shaken to announce plague epidemics
*drink made of pouring warm milk over an egg
**apparently referring to tax and tithe

Monique Morelli - Villon - Poor I am

This is an extract of the great will of Villon (XVth Century).
Original Title: "Pauvre je suis"
Year: 1974

In the thirtieh year of my age
That all my shames I'd have drunk
Nor completely crazy, nor completely wise
In spite of many sorrows I had

Which I all received
Under the hand of Thibaut d'Aussigny...
If Bishop he is, lording the streets,
That he is mine I deny him!

My lord he is not, nor my bishop
Under him nothing holds if not lieing fallow
Faith owes him no tribute
I am not his serf nor his doe
Fed with a small loaf
and of cold water a whole summer
Broad or narrow, a lot has been meagre to me
Let God be to him like he was to me.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

And if someone wants to reprimand me
And say that I curse him
Not done, if one can well understand
In no way do I speak ill of him

Here is all the bad that I have to say:
If he has been mercifull to me
Jesus, the king of paradise
Let him be alike to the soul and body!

If he has been tough and cruel to me
Much more than here is told
I want that the eternal God
Is to him then alike to that account

And if the church tells us and relates
That we should pray for our enemies
I would tell you: "I am wrong and ashamed
Whatever he did to, commited it to God"

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Over poverty bemoaning
Many times the heart tells me:
"Man, do not be so upset
And do not exert such pain,

If you do not have as much heart as Jack:
Better to live under big clog
Poor, than having been lord
And rot under rich tomb!"

If I am not, well considered,
Son of angel wearing tiara
of Stars nor stagger others.
My father is dead, God have his soul!

As to the body, it lies under the blade
I understand that my mother will die
And she knows it well the poor woman,
And the son will not resurect.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

I know that poors and richs,
Wise and mad, priests and ugly ones,
Nobles, vilains, big and meager,
Small and tall, and beautiful and ugly,

Ladies with rolled up short capes,
Of any condition,
Wearing attires and rolls,
Death grabs without exception.

Death make them shudder and go pale,
The nose to curve, the veins to stretch,
The neck to swell, the flesh to go soft,
Joints and nerves to grow and spread.

Feminine body, which is so tender,
Polished, silky, so precious
Will you have to wait for those ills?
Yes, or all alive go to heavens.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Monique Morelli - Villon - Ballad to pray Our Lady

Original Title: "Ballade pour prier Notre Dame"
Text: François Villon (XVth Century, written for his mother)
Year: 1974
Richard Stokes also made a great translation of it here, there are a few mistakes/liberties taken however that I try to correct below.

Lady of the sky, regent of the earth,
Empress of the infernal swamps
Receive me, your humble Christian,
Let me be contained among your chosen
Even though I had never any worth
Kindnesses from you, my Lady and my Mistress,
Are way bigger than I am sinner
Without those kindnesses, soul can not be rewarded
with the heavens. I am not talkative about it:
In this faith I want to live and die.

To your Son tell that I am his;
From him let my sin be abolished
Forgive me like you did to the Egyptian woman
Or like he did to the cleric Theophilus,
who, by you, was acquitted and absolved
No matter how many promises he had made to the devil
Preserve me from ever doing such a thing
Virgin who bore without incurring blemish
The sacrament that is celebrated during the mass:
In this faith I want to live and die.

Woman, I am poor and ancient,
Who knows nothing; never having read any letter.
See at the monastery, of which I am parishioner
Painted paradise, where harps and lutes are,
And one hell where the damned are boiled
One scares me, the other is joy and jubilation
To have that joy makes me, high Goddess,
To whom sinners must all appeal to,
Filled with faith, without feint nor laziness:
In this faith I want to live and die.

You carried, worthy Virgin, princess,
Ruling Jesus who has no end nor rest.
The All-Mighty, taking our weaknesses,
left the heavens and came to our rescue,
Offered to death his dear youth;
Our Lord is such, I confess it so:
In this faith I want to live and die.

Monique Morelli - Villon - Epitaph (Ballad of the hangmen)

Original Title: "Epitaphe (Ballade des pendus)"
Text: François Villon (XVth Century)
Year: 1974, 1968 (Reggiani's reading)

Brothers human who after us live
Do not have the hearts hardened against us
Because, if pity of us poors have
God would rather have mercy of you
You see us here tied up by five or six
As of the flesh, that we have fed too much,
It's devoured and roten for a long time
And we, the bones, become ash and powder
Of our misfortune let noone laugh about:
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

If brothers we call you, you do not have
Disdain from it, although we have been slayed
By Justice. However you know
That all men do not have the mind go stale
Pardon us, as we are chilled to the bone
Toward the Son of the Virgin Marie
Let his grace not be dried up for us
Preserving us from the infernal thunderbolt
We are dead, do not harass our soul
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

The rain has soaked us and washed us
And the sun dried us out and blackened
Magpies, crows have our eyes hollowed out
And teared off the beard and the eyebrows
Never a moment are we sitting:
Then here and there, like the wind varies
At his will, endlessly, sweeps us along,
More pecked by birds than a thimble
So do not be of our brotherhood
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

Prince Jesus, who on everything has control
Be careful that Hell does not rule over us
To him have nothing to do or settle with
Men here have no mockery
But pray God that all of us want to absolve!

Serge Reggiani's version:

Monique Morelli - Villon - Rondeau (Death, I appeal against your harshness)

Original Title: "Rondeau (Mort, j'appelle de ta rigueur)"
Text: François Villon (XVth Century)
Year: 1974

Death,
I appeal against your harshness
which has ravished me my mistress
And is not assuaged yet
If you do not hold me in languidness:

Since,
had nor strength nor vigour
But what harm was she doing to you alive,
Death ?
But what harm was she doing to you alive,

Two we were
and had only one heart;
If it's dead, no choice but to deviate,
indeed, or for me to live lifeless
Like the images, by heart,
Death !

Monique Morelli - Villon - Ballad of small talks

Original Title: "Ballade des menus propos"
Text: François Villon (XVth century)

Year: 1974

I know well flies in milk
I know man at his dress
I know the nice weather from the bad
I know the apple from the apple tree
I know the tree from seeing its gum
I know when everything is alike
I know who works and who is idle
I know everything, save my own self

I know pourpoint from the neck
I know the monk from the gown
I know the master from the valet
I know the nun from her veil
I know when trickster uses jargon
I know mad women fed with creams*
I know wine by the ton
I know everything, save my own self

I know horse and mule
I know their load and their sleep time
I know Beatrix and Belet
I know tokens that numbers sums
I know vision and dreams²
I know the fault³ of the Bohemians
I know the power of Rome
I know everything, save my own self

Prince, I know everything all in all
I know colored and pale ones
I know death which consumes everything
I know everything, save my own self

*cheeses associated with madness
² reality from dreams
³ Heresy of Hussite

Monique Morelli - Villon - I pity the time of my youth

Original Title: "Je plains le temps de ma jeunesse"
Text: François Villon
Music: Lino Léonardi
Year: 1974

I pity the time of my youth
During which I have enjoyed more than others
Until the entrance of old age
That has its advancement concealed
It did not go on foot
Nor on horseback: Alas! How then?
Suddenly has flown away
And didn't leave me any gift

Gone has been and I remain
Poor of sense and knowledge
Sad, failed, more black than moor
Who has no sense, income has not
The least of my own, I speak the truth,
Commits himself to disown me
Forgetting natural duty
For lack of a little inheritance
For lack of a little inheritance

Eh! God, if I had studied
At the time of my crazy youth
And to good morals dedicated
I would have house and soft bed
But what? I fled school
Like does the bad child
While writing this word
Close for my heart to break
Close for my heart to break

My days have gone wandering
Like, says Job, of a tablecloth
Make the nets, when weaver
in his fist holds a burning straw
When if he has no end that sticks out
Suddenly he robs it
If I do not fear that anything assaults me anymore
Because in death everything is satisfied
Because in death everything is satisfied

Monique Morelli - Villon - Ballad of Blois contest

Original Title: "Ballade du concours de Blois"
Text: François Villon (1458)
Year: 1974

I die of thirst beside the fountain
Hot as fire, and trembling tooth to tooth
In my own country, I am in a distant land
Near a blaze, shiver all burning
Bare as a worm, dressed like a president,
I laugh in tears and wait without hope
Taking my comfort back in sad despair
I rejoyce and have no pleasure at all
Powerful I am, without strength or power,
Welcomed gladly and spurned by each.

Nothing for me is sure but the uncertain matter
Obscure except what is completely obvious
Doubt I don't make except in certainties
Knowledge holds to a sudden accident
I win everything and remain loser
At daybreak, say: "God give you good evening!"
Lying on the wrong side I am greatly afraid of falling
I have means and if I have none of it
Expecting inheritance and of man I'm no heir
Welcomed gladly and spurned by each.

Taking care of nothing if I go through a lot of trouble
to acquire goods to which I'm no claimant
Who compliments me the most is the one who hurts me the most
And who is more true then tells more lies about me
My friend is the one who makes me understand
that a white swan is a black crow
And who harms me, believes he helps me provide
Truth, lies, today all is the same to me
I remember everything, can't imagine anything
Welcomed gladly and spurned by each.

Lenient Prince, may it please you to know
that I understand a lot and have no wit nor knowledge
Biased I am, alike to every law
What do I know more? What! Redeem what I’ve been pledged,
Welcomed gladly, and spurned by each.