by Paul Keegan
And lusty Hebe, Junoys douchtir gay,
Stude spulyeit of hir office and array.
35
The soyl ysowpit into watir wak,
The firmament ourcast with rokis blak,
The grond fadyt, and fawch wolx all the feildis,
Montane toppis slekit with snaw ourheildis;
On raggit rolkis of hard harsk quhyn-stane
40
With frosyn frontis cauld clynty clewis schane.
Bewté was lost, and barrand schew the landis,
With frostis hair ourfret the feldis standis.
Seir bittir bubbis and the schowris snell
Semyt on the sward a symylitude of hell,
45
Reducyng to our mynd, in every sted,
Gousty schaddois of eild and grisly ded.
Thik drumly skuggis dyrknyt so the hevyn,
Dym skyis oft furth warpit feirfull levyn,
Flaggis of fire, and mony felloun flaw,
50
Scharpe soppys of sleit and of the snypand snaw.
The dolly dichis war all donk and wait,
The law vallé flodderit all with spait,
The plane stretis and every hie way
Full of floschis, dubbis, myre and clay.
55
Laggerit leyis wallowit farnys schew,
Browne muris kythit thar wysnyt mossy hew,
Bank, bra and boddum blanchit wolx and bar.
For gurl weddir growit bestis hair.
The wynd maid waif the red wed on the dyke,
60
Bedowyn in donkis deip was every sike.
Our craggis and the front of rochis seir
Hang gret ische-schouchlis lang as ony speir.
The grond stud barrant, widderit, dosk or gray,
Herbis, flowris and gersis wallowyt away.
45
Woddis, forrestis, with nakyt bewis blowt,
Stude stripyt of thar weid in every howt.
So bustuusly Boreas his bugill blew,
The deyr full dern doun in the dalis drew;
Smale byrdis, flokkand throu thik ronys thrang,
70
In chyrmyng and with cheping changit thar sang,
Sekand hidlis and hyrnys thame to hyde
Fra feirfull thuddis of the tempestuus tyde;
The watir lynnys rowtis, and every lynd
Quhislit and brayt of the swouchand wynd.
75
Puyr lauboraris and bissy husband men
Went wait and wery draglit in the fen.
The silly scheip and thar litil hyrd gromys
Lurkis undre le of bankis, woddis and bromys;
And other dantit grettar bestiall,
80
Within thar stabillis sesyt into stall,
Sik as mulis, horssis, oxin and ky,
Fed tuskyt barys and fat swyne in sty,
Sustenyt war by mannys governance
On hervist and on symmeris purvyance.
(1553)
ANONYMOUS [The Corpus Christi Carol]
Lully, lulley; lully, lulley;
The fawcon hath born my mak away.
He bare hym up, he bare hym down;
He bare hym into an orchard brown.
5
In that orchard ther was an hall,
That was hangid with purpill and pall.
And in that hall ther was a bede;
Hit was hangid with gold so rede.
And yn that bed ther lythe a knyght,
10
His wowndes bledyng day and nyght.
By that bedes side ther kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both nyght and day.
And by that beddes side ther stondith a ston,
‘Corpus Christi’ wretyn theron.
(1908)
ANONYMOUS
Farewell, this world! I take my leve for evere;
I am arested to apere at Goddes face.
O myghtyfull God, thou knowest that I had levere
Than all this world to have oone houre space
5
To make asythe for all my grete trespace.
My hert, alas, is brokyne for that sorowe –
Som be this day that shall not be tomorow!
This lyfe, I see, is but a cheyré feyre;
All thyngis passene and so most I algate.
10
Today I sat full ryall in a cheyere,
Tyll sotell Deth knokyd at my gate,
And onavysed he seyd to me, ‘Chek-mate!’
Lo, how sotell he maketh a devors!
And, wormys to fede, he hath here leyd my cors.
15
Speke softe, ye folk, for I am leyd aslepe!
I have my dreme – in trust is moche treson.
Fram dethes hold feyne wold I make a lepe,
But my wysdom is turnyd into feble resoun:
I see this worldis joye lastith but a season –
20
Wold to God I had remembyrd me beforne!
I sey no more, but be ware of ane horne!
This febyll world, so fals and so unstable,
Promoteth his lovers for a lytell while,
But at the last he yeveth hem a bable
25
When his peynted trowth is torned into gile.
Experyence cawsith me the trowth to compile,
Thynkyng this, to late, alas, that I began,
For foly and hope disseyveth many a man.
Farewell, my frendis! the tide abidith no man:
30
I moste departe hens, and so shall ye.
But in this passage, the beste song that I can
Is Requiem eternam – I pray God grant it me!
Whan I have endid all myn adversité,
Graunte me in Paradise to have a mancyon,
35
That shede his blode for my redempcion.
(1908)
ANONYMOUS
Draw me nere, draw me nere,
Draw me nere, ye joly juggelere!
Here beside dwelleth
A riche barons doughter;
5
She wold have no man
That for her love had sought her.
So nise she was.
She wold have no man
That was made of molde,
10
But if he had a mouth of gold
To kisse her whan she wold.
So dangerus she was.
There of hard a joly juggeler
That laid was on the grene,
15
And at this ladys wordës
Iwis he had gret tene.
An angred he was.
He juggeled to him a well good stede
Of an old hors bone,
20
A sadill and a bridill both,
And set himself thereon.
A juggeler he was.
He priked and praunsëd both
Beffore that lady’s gate;
25
She wend he had ben an angell
Was come for her sake.
A prikker he was.
He priked and praunsëd
Before that lady’s bowr;
30
She wend he had ben an angel
Come from heven towre.
A praunser he was.
Four and twenty knightës
Lade him into the hall,
35
And as many squirës
His hors to the stall,
And gaff him mete.
They gaff him ottës
And also hay;
40
He was an old shrew
And held his hed away.
He wold not ete.
The day began to passe,
The night began to come,
45
To bed was brought
The fair jentell woman,
And the juggeler also.
The night began to passe,
The day began to springe,
50
All the birdës of her bowr
They began to singe,
And the cokoo also.
‘Where be ye, my mery maidens,
That ye come not me to?
55
The joly windows of my bowr
Look that you undo,
That I may see!
‘For I have in mine armes
A duke or elles an erle.’
60
But whan she looked him upon,
He was a blere-eyed chorle.
‘Alas!’ she said.
She lade him to an hill,
And hanged shuld he be.
65
He juggeled himself to a mele-pok;
The dust fell in her eye;
Begiled she was.
God and our Lady
And swetë Seint Johan
70
Send every giglot of this town
Such another leman,
Even as he was.
(1903)
1520 ANONYMOUS
Westron wynde when wyll thow blow
The smalle rayne downe can rayne -
Cryst, yf my love wer in my armys
And I in my bed agayne!
(1790)
1523 JOHN SKELTON from A Goodly Garlande or Chapelet of Laurell
[The Garden of the Muses: Iopas’ Song]
There Cintheus sat twynklyng upon his harpe stringis;
And Iopas his instrument did avaunce,
The poemis and storis auncient inbryngis
Of Athlas astrology, and many noble thyngis,
5
Of wandryng of the mone, the course of the sun,
Of men and of bestis, and whereof they begone,
What thynge occasionyd the showris of rayne,
Of fyre elementar in his supreme spere,
And of that pole artike whiche doth remayne
10
Behynde the taile of Ursa so clere;
Of Pliades he prechid with ther drowsy chere,
Immoysturid with mislyng and ay droppyng dry,
And where the two Trions a man shold aspy,
And of the winter days that hy them so fast,
15
And of the wynter nyghtes that tary so longe,
And of the somer days so longe that doth last,
And of their shorte nyghtes; he browght in his songe
How wronge was no ryght, and ryght was no wronge;
There was counteryng of carollis in meter and verse
20
So many, that longe it were to reherse.
To Maystres Isabell Pennell
By Saynt Mary, my lady,
Your mammy and your dady
Brought forth a godely babi!
My mayden Isabell,
5
Reflaring rosabell,
The flagrant camamell;
The ruddy rosary,
The soverayne rosemary,
The praty strawbery;
10
The columbyne, the nepte,
The jeloffer well set,
The propre vyolet;
Enuwyd, your colowre
Is lyke the dasy flowre
15
After the Aprill showre;
Sterre of the morow gray,
The blossom on the spray,
The fresshest flowre of May!
Maydenly demure,
20
Of womanhode the lure;
Wherfore, I make you sure,
It were an hevenly helth,
It were an endeles welth,
A lyfe for God hymselfe,
25
To here this nightingale
Amonge the byrdes smale,
Warbelynge in the vale:
Dug, dug, jug, jug,
Good yere and good luk,
30
With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk.
JOHN SKELTON from Speke Parott
[Parrot’s Complaint]
GALATHEA
Nowe, Parott, my swete byrde, speke owte yet ons agayn,
Sette asyde all sophysms, and speke now trew and playne.
PAROTTE
So many morall maters, and so lytell usyd;
So myche newe makyng, and so madd tyme spente;
5 So myche translacion into Englyshe confused;
So myche nobyll prechyng, and so lytell amendment;
So myche consultacion, almoste to none entente;
So myche provision, and so lytell wytte at nede –
Syns Dewcalyons flodde there can no clerkes rede.
10 So lytyll dyscressyon, and so myche reasonyng;
So myche hardy-dardy, and so lytell manlynes;
So prodigall expence, and so shamfull reconyng;
So gorgyous garmentes, and so myche wrechydnese,
So myche portlye pride, with pursys penyles;
15 So myche spente before, and so myche unpayd behynde –
Syns Dewcalyons flodde there can no clerkes fynde.
So myche forcastyng, and so farre an after-dele;
So myche poletyke pratyng, and so lytell stondythe in stede;
So lytell secretnese, and so myche grete councell;
20 So manye bolde barons, there hertes as dull as lede;
So many nobyll bodyes, undyr on dawys hedd;
So royall a kyng, as reynythe uppon us all –
Syns Dewcalions flodde, was nevyr sene nor shall.
So many complayntes, and so smalle redresse;
25 So myche callyng on, and so smalle takyng hede;
So myche losse of merchaundyse, and so remedyles;
So lytell care for the comynweall, and so myche nede;
So myche dowghtfull daunger, and so lytell drede;
So myche pride of prelattes, so cruell and so kene –
30 Syns Dewcalyons flodde, I trowe, was nevyr sene.
So many thevys hangyd, and thevys neverthelesse;
So myche presonment, for matyrs not worth a hawe;
So myche papers weryng for ryghte a smalle exesse;
So myche pelory pajauntes undyr colowur of good lawe;
35 So myche towrnyng on the cooke-stole for every guy-gaw;
So myche mokkyshe makyng of statutes of array –
Syns Dewcalyons flodde was nevyr, I dar sey.
So braynles calvys hedes, so many shepis taylys;
So bolde a braggyng bocher, and flesshe sold so dere;
40 So many plucte partryches, and so fatte quaylles;
So mangye a mastyfe curre, the grete greyhoundes pere;
So bygge a bulke of brow-auntleres cabagyd that yere;
So many swannes dede, and so small revell –
Syns Dewcalyons flodde, I trow, no man can tell.
45 So many trusys takyn, and so lytyll perfyte trowthe;
So myche bely-joye, and so wastefull banketyng;
