Olivier Basselin who flourished in the Fifteenth century, and who was a fuller by trade, is another one of the literary “Fathers,” his title being, “Le Pere Joyeux du Vaudeville.” Born at Vire, surrounded by valleys, it is held by some, while contradicted by others, that the modern term vaudeville is a corruption of Vaux de Vire. His songs are mostly convivial and his humor broad and rollicking. _TO MY NOSE_ Fair Nose! whose rubies red have cost me many a barrel Of claret wine and white, Who wearest in thy rich and sumptuous apparel Such red and purple light! Great Nose! who looks at thee through some huge glass at revel, More of thy beauty thinks: For thou resemblest not the nose of some poor devil Who only water drinks. The turkey-cock doth wear, resembling thee, his wattles, How many rich men now Have not so rich a nose! To paint thee, many bottles And much time I allow. The glass my pencil is for thine illumination; My color is the wine, With which I’ve painted thee more red than the carnation, By drinking of the fine. ’Tis said it hurts the eyes; but shall they be the masters? Wine is the cure for all; Better the windows both should suffer some disasters, Than have the whole house fall. _APOLOGY FOR CIDER_ Though Frenchmen at our drink may laugh, And think their taste is wondrous fine, The Norman cider, which we quaff, Is quite the equal of his wine,-- When down, down, down it freely goes, And charms the palate as it flows. Whene’er a potent draught I take, How dost thou bid me drink again? Yet, pray, for my affection’s sake, Dear Cider, do not turn my brain. O, down, down, down it freely goes, And charms the palate as it flow. I find I never lose my wits, However freely I carouse, And never try in angry fits To raise a tempest in the house; Though down, down, down the cider goes, And charms the palate as it flows. To strive for riches in all stuff, Just take the good the gods have sent; A man is sure to have enough If with his own he is content; As down, down, down, the cider goes, And charms the palate as it flows. In truth that was a hearty bout; Why, not a drop is left,--not one; I feel I’ve put my thirst to rout; The stubborn foe at last is gone. So down, down, down the cider goes, And charms the palate as it flows. Francois Villon, born 1431, though not paternally designated, is called, and rightly, the Prince of Ballade Makers. Two translations are here given of one of his most popular poems, and another witty Ballade is added. _THE BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES_ _Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti_