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A corpse went sadly on its way
To take possession of its final resting place;
A Curate went off merrily
To bury this corpse as fast as he could.
Our departed one was carried in a coach,
Well and duly wrapped,
And dressed in a robe, alas! that one calls a bier,
Winter robe, summer robe,
Which the dead scarcely ever take off.
The Pastor was at his side,
And was reciting as usual
Many devout orations,
And psalms and lessons,
And verses and responses:
“Mister Corpse, leave it to us,
You’ll be given them in every fashion;
It’s only a question of the fee.”
Sir Jean Chouart was eyeing his corpse,
As if this treasure were about to be snatched from him,
And with his glances seemed to say to him:
“Mister Corpse, I shall have from you
So much in silver, and so much in wax,
And so much in other petty costs.”
On this he was already planning the purchase of a cask
Of the best wine in the region;
A certain niece, plump enough,
And her chambermaid Pâquette
Were to get some flounced skirts.
Upon this pleasant thought
A knock comes, farewell to the coach.
There is Sir Jean Chouart,
His head broken by the shock of his corpse;
The parishioner in lead drags down his Pastor;
Our Curate follows his Lord;
Both of them go off together.
All our life, properly speaking,
Is Curate Chouart, who counted on his corpse,
And the fable of The Milkmaid and Her Pail.
Jean de La Fontaine
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/fable-the-curate-and-the-corpse-jean-de-la-fontaine/