Right, squire, go saddle my faithful steed.
My heart bends with joy when I tread the stirrup.

(2)
By Saint-Gille, let's go, you agile chestnut horse of mine.
Listen, we’re hitting the road to see the joust of King John.

(3)
Let a fat friar librarian arm himself with an inkwell;
let a girl held in a convent make herself hoarse with praying.

(4)
We who are, by the grace of God, high ranking noblemen,
need to make a noise on earth; and war is a mere game.

(5)
My old soul was growing angry, because my sword 
was rusting and turning into a distaff.

(6)
That city whose shouts we hear, with its gray silhouette 
of flimsy roofs, its hundred turrets 
and slender steeples - that is Paris!

(7)
A huge crowd (I swear it) is flowing like a stream,
rushing incongruously down the Rue Saint-Marceau.

(8)
Notre-Dame! How beautiful is that! By my raven soul 
I swear that I’d like to be a priest or clerk to be buried there!

(9)
The dances and songs mingle girls and boys. 
What festivity! So many heads looking down from the rooftops!

(10)
A rogue in new clothes breathing like an ox 
is playing a march from Luzarche on the arches of the Pont-Neuf.

(11)
There’s the old Louvre Palace! Wide and heavy, 
it’s open only by day. It houses the crown, 
and bells ring in its tower.

(12)
Praise to the ladies!  Praise to the King! 
See the pennants on the jousting-ground 
and the stumbling crowd shrieking and surging!

(13)
Let's not wait, let's hurry there. And tenderly, 
from our saddles, let's besiege the damsels, 
the rosy beauties on the balconies.

(14)
Saulx-Tavane the ribald is parading, 
and Chabot the hunchback clashes swords, 
mocking club-footed Fontraille.

(15)
Over there is Serge who vowed to go as a virgin 
to the Holy Land; and there is Lothaire, 
the landless duke; and Sauveterre, devil and god.

(16)
The Vidame of Conflans is stepping slowly behind his lady; 
some women are growing annoyed at the brunette with the white arms.

(17)
Resplendent up on the wall is Iseult, 
the maid with the pure forehead; and there, separate, 
is a group old ladies whose colours are gules upon azure.

(18)
In the line you can also see Berthe, Alice, Léonor, 
your godmother Lady Irène, and the queen dressed all in gold.

(19)
Lady Irène speaks: "What! The Queen sad here!" 
Her Majesty says: "Countess, I have sorrow and worry."

(20)
The fight begins.  The bell has sounded! 
Lance blows, cries of fright! Brave deeds are done, 
throats are cut, it’s happening, by George, by the King!

(21)
The surging battle is a torrent of iron, 
with blows and yells filling the air, 
it churns and groans like a wave on the sea!

(22)
On the field it’s like lightning
that shoots far and bright; 
what a mixture – finery and blood, 
angelic pleasures and hellish noise!

(23)
Gee up, steed, so that I may celebrate 
that gray-headed King. I promise you will feast 
on plenty of straw and bran…

(24)
more than a fat friar can, a gay friar 
with a sweet tooth who begs on the squares 
you pass through, who grimaces as he prays!
 
(25)
In the tumult, like a bent lily, a handsome page has fallen.  
He faints, he is dying, he calls for a priest.

(26)
The frightening fanfare with golden tones sounds again 
for his fall; a sad combat of flute against horn!

(27)
Monks and virgins will place large candles 
above his brow; and in the shade 
of that sombre place two dark eyes will weep.

(28)
For Madame Isabeau is following his soul to the grave. 
So many alarms! So many tears!  A tournament is so beautiful!

(29)
Right, brother steed, let's go back to our baronial domain; 
go faster, for in the home that awaits you, we will find

(30)
oats for you in the morning, and for me Augustin, 
the holy monk of the Roman church who bores me with Latin,

(31)
and records in roman script all the marvellous deeds I do, 
which I pay him to inscribe on broad parchment. 

(32)
A true Lord of the Castle has a lowly man to write for him; 
for his own worthy hand, when he signs his name, scratches the vellum.