Don’t scorn the word, if ‘brothers’ we have said;
We’re washed out by the rain from overhead;
Prince Jesus, who for all men do attest,
Or, The Ballade of the Hanged.
Translated by Mike Leach.
You should not set your hearts against our woe,
For if you pity us poor lads instead,
To you in turn will God His mercy show.
You see us dangling, five, six in a row;
As for the flesh we fed with so much zest,
It’s perished, rotted, belly, back and breast,
While we, the bones, in dust and ashes fall.
Let no man of our sorrow make a jest;
But pray that God may save us one and all.
We mean no disrespect, though our death-blow
Was struck by justice. Surely you have read
That not all men good sense and reason know.
So, brothers, pray for us, who here below
Against the Holy Virgin’s Son transgressed,
That by His grace, we may not be oppressed
By torments everlasting, in Hell’s thrall.
Don’t harry us, our sins we have confessed;
But pray that God may save us one and all.
Dried up and blackened by the sun we grow;
The crows and magpies on our eyes have fed,
And plucked out beard and eyebrows long ago.
We’re never still, swing ever to and fro,
Now here, now there, blown at the wind’s behest,
It never lets us have a moment’s rest,
Pockmarked like thimbles, at birds’ beck and call.
Don’t join our brotherhood, nor be our guest;
But pray that God may save us one and all.
Let not us sinners be by Hell possessed;
We’ve no affairs to settle in that hall.
Here, men, for once I speak no word of jest;
But pray that God may save us one and all.