Ballad of Old Time Lords

…from the quills of the dead white poets

 Francois Villon (1431 – 1463)

 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.

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.

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.

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.


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.

About Avadoro Worden

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One Response to Ballad of Old Time Lords

  1. Selina says:

    I like your Sunday selection of old poets. Makes me think about shortness of life.

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