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Insulting song (Bon Joure a Vous!)

Poster: EoganOg@aol.com

This talk on insults made me remember one of my favourite Middle English
lyrics, and also one of the more insulting songs I know!  It is a 14th century
text from the southeast midlands of England.

The chorus is partly in French, and it is intended to be sung with in how a
14th century Englishman might put on a fake French accent if he were
attempting to make fun of Frenchmen.  For instance, the title, "Bon Joure a
Vous" would be said more or less like it is spelled to us:  BON-joor ah voose
(rhymes with moose!).  We know of a tune for the chorus (which is very simple,
and intended to be sung loudly and off key--just ask me some time and I'll
sing it for ya!), but we have no tune for the verses.  As far as we know they
could have been spoken.  That is how I perform it.  So, without further adeu.
. .


Bon joure, bon joure a vous!
I am cum unto this hous,
With par la pompe, I say.
Bon joure, bon joure, bon joure, 
bon joure, bon joure, bon joure a vous!

Is ther any good man here
That will make me any chere?
And if there were, I wold cum nere
To wit what he wold say.
     A, will ye be wild?
     By Mary mild
     . . . . . . . . . . . .
I trow ye will sing gay.
     Bon Joure. . . etc.

Be gladly, masters everychon!
I am cum myself alone
To oppose you on by on.
Let  see who dare say nay.
     Sir, what say ye?
     Sing on, let us see.
     Now will it be
This or another day?
     Bon Joure. . . etc.

Lo, this is he that will do the dede!
He tempereth his mouth, therefore take hede.
Sing softe, I say, leste your nose blede,
For hurt yourself ye may!
     But by God that me bought,
     Your brest is so tought,
     Till ye have well cought
Ye may not therwith away.
     Bon Joure. . . etc.

Sir, what say ye, with your face so lene?
Ye sing nother good tenoure, treble, ne mene.
Utter not your voice without your brest be clene
Hartely I you pray!
     I hold you excused,
     Ye shall be refused,
     For ye have not be used
To no good sport or play.
     Bon Joure. . . etc.

Sir, what say ye, with your fat face?
Me thinketh ye shuld bere a very good bace
To a pot of good ale or Ipocras,
Truly as I you say!
     Hold up your hede,
     Ye loke like lede;
     Ye wast miche bred
Evermore from day to day
     Bon Joure. . . etc.

Now will ye see wher he stondeth behinde?
Iwis, brother, ye be unkind.
Stond forth, and wast with me son wind,
For ye have ben called a singer ay.
     Nay, be not ashamed;
     Ye shall not be blamed,
     For ye have been famed
The worst in this contrey!
     Bon Joure. . . etc.

Ta da!  And all this talk about insuls and Middle English has reminded me of a
quote I read in Chaucer.  Literally translated it meant, "Sir, I wish I had
your testicles in my hand so that I might enshrine them in a pig's turd."
Talk about a nifty insult!  I just can't remember where in Chaucer's writings
I read it. . . a cookie for whoever can find me the original Middle English of
Eogan Og
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