THE SONG OF THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS[51] Much argument is heard of late, The subject I'll attempt to state, A question for dispute, I fear, That will hang on for many a year. The student-folk of Paris town (I speak of those in cap and gown, Students of art, philosophy,— In short, "the University," And not our old-time learned men) Have stirred up trouble here again. Nothing they'll gain, it seems to me, Except more bitter enmity, Till there is no peace, day or night. Does such a state of things seem right? To give his son a chance to stay In Paris, growing wise each day, Is some old peasant's one ambition. To pay his bills and his tuition The poor hard-working father slaves; Sends him each farthing that he saves, While he in misery will stay On his scant plot of land to pray That his hard toil may help to raise His son to honor and to praise. But once the son is safe in town The story then reads upside down. Forgetting all his pledges now, The earnings of his father's plow He spends for weapons, not for books. Dawdling through city streets, he looks To find some pretty, loitering wench, Or idle brawl by tavern bench; Wanders at will and pries about, Till money fails and gown wears out.— Then he starts fresh on the old round; Why sow good seed on barren ground? Even in Lent when men should do Something pleasing in God's view, Your students then elect to wear For penitence, no shirts of hair, But swaggering hauberks, as they sit Drowning in drink their feeble wit; While three or four of them excite Four hundred students to a fight, And close the University. (Not such a great calamity!) Yet, heavens, for one of serious mind What life more pleasing can you find Than earnest scholar's life may be? More pains than precious gems has he, And while he's struggling to grow wise, Amusements he must sacrifice,— Give up his feasting and his drinking, And spend his time in sober thinking. His life is just about as merry As is a monk's in a monastery. Why send a boy away to school There to become an arrant fool? When he should be acquiring sense, He wastes his time and all his pence, And to his friends brings only shame, While they suppose him winning fame. Translated by Marion E. Markley THE LAND OF COCKAYGNE[52]