Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/413

PROVENÇAL LOVERS For the wight that died o' Wednesday,

Just laid the light below,

Is dead as the varlet turned to clay

A score of years ago.

Where's he that died o' Sabba' day?

Good Lord, I'd not be he!

The best of days is foul enough

From this world's fare to flee;

And the saint that died o' Sabba' day,

With his grave turf yet to grow,

Is dead as the sinner brought to pray

A hundred years ago.

Where's he that died o' yesterday?

What better chance hath he

To clink the can and toss the pot

When this night's junkets be?

For the lad that died o' yesterday

Is just as dead—ho! ho!—

As the whoreson knave men laid away

A thousand years ago.

PROVENÇAL LOVERS

AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE

the garden of Beaucaire

He met her by a secret stair,—

The night was centuries ago.

Said Aucassin, "My love, my pet,

These old confessors vex me so!

They threaten all the pains of hell

Unless I give you up, ma belle";—

Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

To fill your place, ma très-douce mie? 383