This is the best ending for any set of verses one may choose out of
Villon. It follows and completes the epitaph which in his will he orders
to be written in charcoal--or scratched--above his tomb: the sad,
sardonic octave of "the little scholar and poor." It is a kind of added
dirge to be read by those who pass and to be hummed or chaunted over him
dead. But it is a rondeau.
See how sharp it is with the salt and vinegar of his pressed courageous
smile--and how he cannot run away from his religion or from his power
over sudden and vivid beauty.
"Sire--et clarté perpétuelle"--which last are the best two words that
ever stood in the vulgar for _lux perpetua_.
It is no wonder that as time went on, more and more people learnt these
things by heart.
_RONDEAU._
_Repos éternel, donne à cil,
Sire, et clarté perpétuelle,
Qui vaillant plat ni escuelle
N'eut oncques, n'ung brain de percil.
Il fut rez, chief, barbe et sourcil,
Comme un navet qu'on ret ou pelle.
Repos éternel donne à cil.
Rigueur le transmit en exil
Et luy frappa au cul la pelle,
Non obstant qu'il dit "J'en appelle!"
Qui n'est pas terme trop subtil.
Repos éternel donne à cil._