Albert Edmund Trombly, trans.

From the Old French

ONCE there were three small children

Who went into the fields to glean.

They came at night to a butcher’s house:

“Butcher, have you beds for us?”

“Come, little children, come in, come in;

Assuredly there’s room within.”

Hardly had they passed the wall

Than the butcher killed them all.

He cut them up and put each bit

Like pork into the salting-pit.

Seven years later Saint Nicholas

He happened in that place to pass,

Betook himself to the butchery:

“Butcher, have you a bed for me?”

“Come in, come in, Saint Nicholas;

There’s room, there is no lack of space.”

Hardly had he entered there

Than he asked for his supper.

“Is it a piece of ham you would?”

“I don’t want any, it isn’t good.”

“Would you like a piece of veal?”

“I don’t want any, it doesn’t look well.”

“I’d like to have some little meat

That’s seven years in the salting-pit.”

When the butcher heard this said

He bolted from his door and fled.

“Butcher, butcher, don’t run away—

God will forgive you if you pray.”

Saint Nicholas did three fingers rub

On the edge of the salting-tub.

The first child said, “I slept very well!”

“And so did I!” the second tells.

The third child spoke up in this wise,

“I thought I was in Paradise!”