Part 30 (1/2)
”Rente, rente, Rey de France, Que si non, qu'en mourt ou pris,”
Quin seri lou Rey de France?
Que jamey you nou l'ey bist.”
Queou lheban l'ale deou mantou Troban l'y la flou de lys.
Quou ne prenen et quou liguen Dens la prison que l'an mis.
Dehens ue tour escure, Jamey sour ni lue s'y a bist; Si nou per ue frinistote....
U poustillou bet beni.
”Poustillou que lettres portis Que si counte ta Paris?”
”La nouvelle que you porti Lou Rey qu'ere mort ou pris.”
”Tourne t'en poustillou en poste, Tourne t'en enta Paris.
Arrecommandem a ma femme Tabe mous infants pet.i.ts.
”Que ha.s.sen batte la mounede, La qui sie dens Paris, Que men embien ue cargue Por rachetam au pays.”
The chorus is usually at the end of each verse--”La lyron, la lyre,” or ”doundoun, doundone.”]
The following is also a favourite ballad on the battle of Coutras and the death of Joyeuse, the magnificent favourite of Henry III., whose contemptuous remark on his effeminacy was the cause of his exposing himself in the _melee_. The episode of the fate of Joyeuse is an affecting one in the life of the valiant and generous Henry of Navarre.
The treasure was immense that was taken from the gorgeous army destined to overthrow the hara.s.sed Huguenots, but literally cut to pieces by the stern and bold, though ragged warriors. The gold, silver, and jewels that were brought to Henry's tent, after the victory, were heaped on the floor, and the dead body of the beautiful and admired Duke de Joyeuse was brought to him. Henry turned away, sick at heart, and commanded the corpse to be covered with a cloak, and removed carefully; and desired that all the spoil should be divided amongst the soldiers; holding it beneath him to accept any: nor could he restrain his tears at the sight of so much carnage of those whom he looked upon as his subjects.
THE DEATH OF JOYEUSE.
Between La Roche and Coutras Was heard our battle cry; And still we called--”To arms! to arms!”
Our voices rent the sky.
Our king was there with all his men, And all his guards beside, Within, the Duke de Joyeuse, And to the king he cried:
”Oh, yield, King Henry, yield to me!”-- ”What simple squire art thou, To bid King Henry yield him, And to thy bidding bow?”
”I an no simple squire, But a knight of high degree; I am the Duke de Joyeuse, And thou must yield to me.”
The king has placed his cannon In lines against the wall,-- The first fire Joyeuse trembled, The next saw Joyeuse fall.
Alas! his little children, How sad will be their fate!-- A nurse both young and pretty, Shall on them tend and wait: And they shall be brave warriors, When they come to man's estate.
The next ballad is in the same strain:
THE DEATH OF THE DUKE DE MAINE.
The n.o.ble Duke de Maine Is dead or wounded sore; Three damsels came to visit him, And his hard hap deplore.
”Oh! say, fair prince, where is your wound?”