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BALLADE OF FRANCOIS VILLON, AS HE WAS ABOUT TO DIE, by             Poem Explanation        
First Line: I, francois villon, ta'en at last
Last Line: They are the things which I regret!
Variant Title(s): Would I Be Shrived?


I, FRANCOIS VILLON, ta'en at last
To this rude bed where all must lie,
Fain would forget the turbid past
And lay me down in peace to die.
"Would I be shrived?" Ah, can I tell?
My sins but trifles seem to be,
Nor worth the dignity of hell;
If not, then ill avails to me
To name them one and all -- and yet --
There be some things which I regret!

The sack of abbeys, many a brawl,
A score of knife thrusts in the dark,
Forced oft, by Fate, against the wall,
And years in donjons, cold and stark --
These crimes and pains seem far away
Now that I come at length to die;
'Tis idle for the past to pray,
'Tis hopeless for the past to sigh:
These are a troubled dream -- and yet --
For them I have but scant regret!

The toil my mother lived to know,
What years I lay in gyves for debt;
A pretty song heard long ago:
Where, I know not; when, I forget;
The crust I once kept for my own
(Though all too scant for my poor use.)
The friend I left to die alone,
(Pardie! the watchman pressed us close!)
Trifles against my crimes to set!
Yet these are all which I regret.

Captains and cutthroats, not a few,
And maidens fair of many a clime
Have named me friend in the wild past
When as we wallowed in the slime;
Gamblers and rogues and clever thieves,
And unfrocked priests, a sorry crew,
(How stubbornly the memory cleaves
To all who have befriended you!)
I drain a cup to them -- and yet --
'Tis not for such I feel regret!

My floundered horse, who died for me
(Nor whip nor spur was his, I ween!)
That day the hangman looked to see
Poor Villon earth and sky between!
A mongrel cur who shared my lot
Three bitter winters on the Ile:
He held the rabble off, God wot,
One time I cheated in the deal;
'Twas but an instant, while I fled
Down a vile alley, known to me --
Back in the tavern he lay dead;
The gamblers raged -- but I went free!
Humble, poor brutes at best; and yet --
They are the friends whom I regret!

And eke the lilies were a-blow
Through all the sunny fields of France;
I marked one whiter than the snow
And would have gathered it, perchance,
Had not some trifle, I forget,
(A bishop's loot, a cask of wine
Filched from some carbet -- a bet --)
Distracted this wild head of mine.
A childish fancy this, and yet --
It is a thing that I regret!

Again I rode through Picardy
What time the vine was in the bud;
A little maiden smiled on me,
I might have kissed her, and I would!
I've known a thousand maidens since,
And many have been kind to me --
I've never seen one quite so fair
As she, that day in Picardy.
Ashes of roses these -- and yet --
They are the things which I regret!

One perfect lily grew for me,
And blossomed on another's breast;
Others have clasped the little hands
Whose rosy palms I might have pressed;
So, as I die, my wasted youth
Mocks my dim eye and failing breath: --
Still, I have lived! and having lived
That much is mine. I mock at Death!
I should confess, you say? But yet --
For life alone I have regret.

Envoy:

O bubbles of the vanished wine
To which my lips were never set!
O lips that dimpled close to mine,
Whose ruddy warmth I never met!
Father, but trifles these, and yet --
They are the things which I regret!





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