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A Norman Priest Dreams of the English
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How now, this cross-grained mongrel breed
Of foul-mouthed curs — thieves all! — their tongue
A sticky coil of stolen dung,
Who, ceaseless, on their betters feed;
And like some choking, noxious weed
Run riot where once roses sprung,
Their hybrid coarseness careless flung
On silk hard won by word and deed.
They nothing know but where to strike
Their enemies, these pearl-struck swine
Who piss in fountains, foul oaths hurled
At slattern wench or priest alike.
And yet! I dreamt a dream. A sign!
These oafs — Sweet Christ! — will rule the world!
For constant reminder of the astonishing number of words appropriated by the English from their Norman masters, our “sticky coil of stolen dung”, I am indebted to my Anglophile companion Marie-France. My rejoinders, (usually containing references to the apparently unstoppable advance of franglais in her native country and lectures on why hybrids are stronger than their pure-bred forbears), are invariably met, however, with that most eloquent example of language known to man — a Gallic shrug.
