Chant royal is a type of poem with a set structure that began in medieval France. It is similar to a ballad but has five stanzas, each with eleven lines. The rhyme pattern follows a specific order, and no rhyming word is used more than once. Each stanza ends with a five-line section called an envoi, which rhymes in a particular way. There are two versions of the envoi: one with five lines and another with seven lines. The chant royal was introduced to French poetry in the 15th century by Christine de Pizan and Charles d'Orléans. It reached England near the end of the 19th century during a time when people were rediscovering French poetic styles. The form was considered very difficult to use, and one person called it "impractical" for everyday writing. During the 15th century, it was one of the most complex poetic forms in Northern France, though less complicated than the sestina, which was more common in Southern France. The chant royal was often used to write about important or brave subjects.

An example

The Dance of Death After Holbein "Contra vim Mortis Non est medicamen in hortis." He is the rulers' ruler. All must wait, whether soon or later, to receive the message of his power. Princes and powerful leaders must hide their heads, marked by the terrifying symbol of his authority. He stands beside the Emperor at evening and pours a drink into his royal cup. The stately Queen must obey his commands. No sharp-eyed Cardinal can challenge him. To the woman who dances wantonly, he says, "Be still, my love, and stop playing." No king is more terrible than Death. The strong lord, proud in his pride, he brings down. Before the armed knight with jingling reins, he still rides. He crosses paths with the strong captain in battle. He calls the serious citizen from debate. He drags the abbot by his shaven head and does not delay for the abess's cries. No begging beggar can stop him. Even the priest at the altar, and no doctor can stop his cold hand. No king is more terrible than Death. All things must bow to him. Woe to the wine-drinker, the reveler at night. The feast-master, who has defied many challenges, will strike him between the pledge and the cup. Woe to the lender who charges high interest, the rich man who is harsh, the hired lawyer. Woe to the judge who sells justice for money. Woe to the thief who creeps like an animal and harasses travelers. These, in their sins, will be killed suddenly. No king is more terrible than Death. He has no mercy, and he will not be denied. When the low hearth is bright and clean, he opens the dark door and steals the infant from the mother's sight. He shows no mercy to those scorned by fate. He does not spare Lazarus lying at the gate, nor the blind who stumbles, nor the tired farmer at sunset, who feels a cold breath and knows a hand has turned his plow. No king is more terrible than Death. He has no mercy. For the newlywed bride, joyful in the promise of life, walking by her husband's side, he frightens her with the sound of his drum. He scares the virgin at the convent gate. He frightens the young woman who is almost won, the passionate lover. He shows no grace to weakness or decay. The gentle wife, the gray-haired widow, the weak father whose steps falter—all are led by him on a lonely path. No king is more terrible than Death. Envoi Youth, for whom I have sung of wasteful people and lost fortunes, enjoy your life and be happy. But remember that a day will come—perhaps even now—when your own heart will tell you: No king is more terrible than Death. — Austin Dobson