Le Testament: Epitaph Et Rondeau

<i>Epitaph</i> Here there lies, and sleeps in the grave, One whom Love killed with his scorn, A poor little scholar in every way, He was named François Villon. He never reaped a morsel of corn: Willed all away, as all men know: Bed, table, and basket all are gone. Gallants, now sing his song below: <i>Rondeau</i> Oh, grant him now eternal peace, Lord, and everlasting light, He wasn't worth a candle bright, Nor even a sprig of parsley. Of eyebrows, hair, and beard he's free, A turnip scraped with a spade, all right: Oh, grant him now eternal peace. Exiled with strict severity, Rapped behind with a spade, despite It all he cried: ‘Appeal, for me!' - Which wasn't the height of subtlety. Oh, grant him now eternal peace.