II.  BALLADES FROM FRANÇOIS VILLON

37

BALLAD OF OLD-TIME LORDS.

No. 2

I.

WHERE are the holy apostles gone,
Alb-clad and amice-tired and stoled
With the sacred tippet and that alone,
    Wherewith, when he waxeth overbold,
    The foul fiend’s throttle they take and hold?
All must come to the self-same bay;
    Sons and servants, their days are told:
The wind carries their like away.

II.

Where is he now that held the throne
    Of Constantine with the hands of gold?
And the King of France, o’er all kings known
    For grace and worship that was extolled,
    Who convents and churches manifold
Built for God’s service? In their day
    What of the honour they had? Behold,
The wind carries their like away.

III.

Where are the champions every one,
    The Dauphins, the counsellors, young and old?
The barons of Salins, Dôl, Dijon,
    Vienne, Grenoble? They all are cold.
38     Or take the folk under their banners enrolled, —
Pursuivants, trumpeters, heralds, (hey!
    How they fed of the fat and the flagon trolled!)
The wind carries their like away.

ENVOI.

Princes to death are all foretold,
    Even as the humblest of their array:
Whether they sorrow or whether they scold,
    The wind carries their like away.