II y fut bien six mois, six mois et davantage,
Messieurs de la justice faisant les ignorants,
Qui demandaient, "Beau prince, qui vous a mis
     céans?

—Celui qui m'y a mis en aura repentance,
Car c'est le roi tie France que j'ai si bien servi,
Qui pour ma récompense la mort me fait souffrir.

Je vois mon cheval blanc errer à l'aventure,
A un autre que moi servira de monture.
Adieu, toutes mes troupes, mal menées ell' seront,
On regrett'ra en France le Maréchal Biron."

[The King was cautioned by one of his men-at-arms.
"Take good heed of the Maréchal Biron; he will
play you a trick which will cost you dear." "What
work has he on hand? tell me, my captain?" "To
cause the death of the Queen, and Monsieur the
Dauphin, and to make an end of your crown."
Right in the middle of this talk, here is Biron,
entering in; with his hat in his hand he makes
reverence to the king: "Good day, my lord the
King! Will it please you to play? You shall gain
a thousand Spanish doubloons from me this day."

The king to him replied, crimsoning with anger,
"Go find the Queen, with her I bid thee play (of
earthly games and pleasures thou hast well-nigh
ta'en thy fill)." Biron failed not to go and seek
the Queen: "Good day, my gracious Queen, will
it please you to play? You shall gain a thousand
Spanish doubloons from me this day." The Queen
to him replied, with anger crimsoning o'er, "I never
play with princes as long as they are armed: put
down your arms, and I will play with you." Biron
failed not to obey; his weapons laid aside; and his
glittering shining sword, his pretty dagger; and in
bravado stuck them in the bolster of the bed. Not
three throws have they thrown when the sergeants
entered in: "Good day, my gracious Prince, we do
not wish to vex you, but this night you must sleep
at the Bastille." He was there six months, six
tedious months and more; my lords, the judges,
pretending ignorance, asked of him, "My fine Prince,
who placed you here?" "He who placed me here
will bitterly repent it, for 'tis the King of France,
whom I so well have served; but who, for my
reward, will make me suffer death. I see my white
charger roaming wild; he will serve to mount to
another man than I. Farewell my gallant troops,
ill-guided will they be, and sorrow will be in France
for the loss of the Maréchal Biron."]

But popular songs are not merely historical
when they recapitulate or refer to the facts of
history; they deserve the name when they
reproduce the manners of an age. The time of
Henry the Fourth, so picturesque in the distance,
was troubled in the extreme by the many causes
of differences of opinion existing between the
provincial gentry, who hardly met on any public
occasion without forming themselves into parties
and fighting—much in the same way as the
lower class of Irish do now, when they break
out into "faction-fights;" and a good deal for
the same reasons—the remembrance of old
injuries, difference of religious opinions, and an
exaggerated spirit of clannishness, which made
it a duty to take up arms in the quarrel of any
relation, be he right or wrong. It is curious to
observe how revisions of the code of morals
begin among the more enlarged and educated,
and percolate downwards; probably the Irish of
the west have now very nearly the same standard
of right and wrong, as the French gentlemen
who fought under the white plume of Henry of
Navarre. There are parts at the end of the
following ballad, written about the time of
which I speak, which remind one of similar
touches of nature in the old Scottish ballads:

     Ce fut à la male heure
     Un jour de vendredi
     Que Monsieur de Bois-Gille,
          La, la, sol, fa,
     Prit congé de Paris,
          La, sol, fa mi.
     Que Monsieur de Bois-Gille
     Prit congé de Paris,
     Pour convoyer deux dames, (bis)
          La, etc.
     Jusque dans leur logis. (bis)
          La, sol, etc.
     La conduite finie, (bis)
          La, etc.
     Étant pour reparti', (bis)
          La, sol, etc.
     "Restez, restez, Bois-Gille,
     Restez, Bois-Gille, ici, etc.
    —Non ma dame m'espère
     A coucher cette nuit."
     Quand il fut dans la plaine
     Voit grande compagnie.
     II appela son page:
     "Petit-Jean, mon ami.,
     Dis-moi, dis-moi, mon page,
     Qui sont tous ces gens-ci?
    —C'est Monsieur de Vendôme,
     Votre grand ennemi;
     Piquez, piquez, mon maître,
     Et tirez a couri'."
    —Courir! un De Bois-Gille!
     Page, tu perds l'esprit!"
     Auprès de la grand' borne
     La rencontre se fit,
     Comme entre gentilshommes
     Le bon jour se donnit:
     "Bon jour, bon jour, Bois-Gille!
    —A toi, Vendôme, aussi!
    —Te souviens-tu, Bois-Gille,
     L'affront que tu me fis?
     Devant la jeune reyne
     Trois fois me démentis,
     Devant la reyne mère
     Un soufflet me donnis?"
     Achevant ces paroles,
     Le combat s'engagit.
     Bois-Gille en tua trente,
     Mais son épé faillit.
     II appela son page:
     "Petit Jean, mon ami!
     Va-t-en dire à ma femme
     Qu'ell' n'a plus de mari.
     Va dire à la nourrice
     Qu'elle ait soin du petit,
     Et qu'il tire vengeance
     Un jour de ces gens-ci."
     Achevant ces paroles,
     Bois-Gill' rendit l'esprit.

[It was an evil hour on an accursed day that
Monsieur de Bois-Gille took his leave of Paris to
convey two ladies unto their home. When he had
taken them home, and was on the point of leaving,
"Stay, stay,  O Bois-Gille—stay here!" "No, my
lady looks for me at sunset this night." Riding
across the plain there was a great company to be
seen. He called to his page: "Johnnie, my boy,