Vers: Farai un vers de dreyt nien, Guillem Comte de Peitou

Gonna make a song of pure nothing

not of me or other men,

nor of love nor joys above,

or anything worse;

dreamed it nodding while out plodding--

on a horse!

Can't tell the day that I was born,

but I'm not happy or forlorn,

my heart's not hid nor on my sleeve--

no chance for change,

since that fight with a witch one night

on a mountain range!

Don't know when I get to bed,

or when I wake if no one's said,

because my heart's been torn apart

by a mortal blow;

I hold this house not worth a mouse,

by Saint Marsau!

I am so sick it's death, I fear,

and all I know is what I hear:

my only thought's to find a doc--

don't know a person;

he'll earn his fee if he cures me,

not if I worsen!

Had a girlfriend, don't know who,

never seen her--think that's true?

She doesn't please or cause me pain,

but there's no sweat:

no Frank or Norman's ever been

in my house yet!

Never seen her--my love's strong;

I've not been righted nor been wronged;

haven't met her--all the better!

I'm chicken feed . . .

and I know a prettier doe,

worth more indeed!

I've made a verse on "Don't-Know-Who":

by someone else I'll send it through,

who'll send it on by another one

to Anjau for me,

so she might from the locks on her jewelry box

send the counter key!