Vente, gresle, gelle, j'ay mon pain cuit.
Sur le Noël, morte saison, Que les loups se vivent de vent […].
Je ne suis homme sans défaut.
Sur le Noël, morte saison, Que les loups se vivent de vent […].
Vente, gresle, gelle, j'ay mon pain cuit.
Je ris en pleurs et attens sans espoir.
Alphonse, le roi d'Aragon, Le gracieux duc de Bourbon, Et Artus le duc de Bretagne, Et Charles septième le bon ? Mais où est le preux Charlemagne ?
© 2026 My French LLC
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