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Updated: May 13, 2025
I need not tell you what solemnities attended his burial, nor with what fervour the people flocked to pray at his tomb; but it is worth knowing that the poet of that place, who was rival to the chief poet in Auxerre itself, gathered up the story of his death into a rhyme, written in the dialect of that valley, of which rhyme this is an English translation: When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would; And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good.
When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To Priest and people gathered there: "If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array. "Almighty God will surely cry 'St. Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands,
They are capable," said Peter Wanderwide, in his dying enthusiasm, "of so writing that the thought enlarges upon the writing and becomes far more than what they have written. They write that sort of verse called 'Stop-Short, which when it is written makes one think more violently than ever, as though it were an introduction to the realms of the soul.
At these words the people about his bed fell to sobbing when they thought how he would never wander more, but Peter Wanderwide continued with a high heart: "How pleasant it is to see them plough!
When Peter Wanderwide had delivered himself of these remarks, which he did with great dignity and fire for one in such extremity, he gasped a little, coughed, and died.
Be welcome, noble Peterkin. "Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d'Aran and Perigord." This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide, He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died.
And then again they write things which gently mock themselves and are a consolation for themselves against the doom of death." But when Peter Wanderwide said that word "death," the howling and the boo-hooing of the company assembled about his bed grew so loud that he could hardly hear himself think.
Peter Wanderwide was sinking very fast, and his life was going out with his breath, but his heart was still so high that he continued although his voice was failing: "Look you, good people all, in your little passage through the daylight, get to see as many hills and buildings and rivers, fields, books, men, horses, ships, and precious stones as you can possibly manage to do.
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