Chapter X: Appendix (8)

J’ai servi my sire le roy en pées e en guere,
En Flaundres, Escoce, en Gascoyne sa terre;
Mès ore ne me sai-je point chevisaunce fere;--
Tot mon temps ay mis en veyn pur tiel honme plere.

Si ces maveis jurours ne se vueillent amender,
Que je pus à mon pais chevalcher e aler,
Si je les pus ateindre la teste lur froi voler,
De touz lur manaces ne dorroi un dener.

Ly Martyn et ly Knoville sunt gent de pieté,
E prient pur les povres qu’il eyent sauveté;
Spigurnel e Belflour sunt gent de cruelté,
Si il fuissent en ma baylie ne serreynt retornée.

Je lur apre[n]droy le giw de Traylebastoun,
E lur bruseroy l’eschyne e le cropoun,
Les bras e les jaunbes, ce serreit resoun,
La lange lur tondroy e la bouche ensoun.

Qy cestes choses primes comença,
Jà jour de sa vie amendé ne serra;
Je vus di pur veyr, trop graunt pecché en a,
Quar pur doute de prisone meint laroun serra.

Ytel devendra leres que ne fust unque mès,
Que pur doute de prisone ne ose venir à pes;
Vivre covient avoir chescum jour adès;
Qy ceste chose comenca, yl emprist grant fes.

Bien devoient marchaunz e moygnes doner maliçoun
A tous iceux que ordinerent le Traillebastoun;
Ne lur vaudra un ayle le roial proteccioun,
Que il ne rendrount les deners sauntz regerdoun.

Vus qy estes endité, je lou, venez à moy,
Al vert bois de Belregard, là n’y a nul ploy,
Forque beste savage e jolyf umbroy;
Car trop est dotouse la commune loy.

Si tu sachez de lettrure, e estes coroucé,
Devaunt les justices serrez appellée;
Uncore poez estre à prisone retornée,
En garde de le evesque, jesque seiez purgée,
E soffryr messayse e trop dure penaunce,
E par cas n’averez jamès delyveraunce.

Pur ce valt plus ou moi à bois demorer,
Q’en prisone le evesque fyerge gyser.
Trop est la penaunce e dure à soffrer;
Quy le mieux puet eslyre, fol est qe ne velt choyser.

Avant savoy poy de bien, ore su-je meins sage;
Ce me fount les male leis par mout grant outrage,
Qe n’os à la pes venyr entre mon lignage;
Les riches sunt à raunsoun, povres à escolage.

Fort serroit engager ce qe ne puet estre aquytée,
C’est la vie de honme que taunt est cher amée.
E je n’ay mye le chatel de estre rechatée;
Mès si je fusse en lur baundoun à mort serroi lyverée;

Uncore attendroy grace e orroi gent parler,
Tiels me dient le mal que me ne osent aprochier.
E volenters verroient mon corps ledenger;
Mès entre myl debles Dieu puet un honme sauver.

Cely me pust salver que est le fitz Marie;
Car je ne su coupable, endité su par envye;
Qy en cesti lu me mist, Dieu lur maldie!
Le siècle est si variant, fous est qe s’affye.

Si je sei compagnoun e sache de archerye,
Mon veisyn irra disaunt, “cesti est de compagnie,
De aler bercer à bois e fere autre folie;”
Que ore vueille vivre come pork merra sa vye.

Si je sache plus de ley qe ne sevent eux,
Yl dirrount, “cesti conspyratour comence de estre faus,”
E le heyre n’aprocheroy de x. lywes en d’eus;
De tous veysinages hony seient ceux.

Je pri tote bone gent qe pur moi vueillent prier,
Qe je pus à mon pais aler e chyvaucher;
Unqe ne fu homicide, certes à moun voler,
Ne mal robberes pur gent damager.

Cest rym fust fet al bois desouz un lorer,
Là chaunte merle, russinole, e cyre l’esperver;
Escrit estoit en parchemyn pur mout remenbrer,
E gitté en haut chemyn, qe um le dust trover.

TRANSLATION.--I am seized with the desire to rhyme and to make a
story,--of a purveyance which is provided in the land;--it would
be much better if the thing were still undone:--if God does not
avert it, I think that there will arise war.

It is the articles of Traillebaston;--except the king himself,
may he have God’s curse--whoever first granted such a
commission!--For there is little reason in any of the points of
it.

Sire, if I wished to chastise my lad--with a slap or two, to
amend him,--he will ask a bill against me, and will cause me to
be arrested,--and to give a great ransom before I escape from
prison.

Forty shillings they take for my ransom,--and the sheriff comes
for his fee,--that he may not put me in deep prison.--Now
consider, lords, is this right?

For this cause I will keep myself among the woods, in the
beautiful shade;--where there is no falseness and no bad law;--in
the wood of Beauregard, where the jay flies,--and where the
nightingale sings always without ceasing.

But the bad idlers, on whom may God have no pity!--with their
false mouths have indited me--of ill robberies and other
delinquency,--so that I dare not be received among my friends.

I have served my lord the king in peace and in war,--in Flanders,
Scotland, and his land of Gascony;--but now I do not know how to
make any expedient for myself;--all my time I have spent in vain
to please such a man.

If these wicked jurors will not amend,--that I may be able to
ride and go at my peace,--if I can reach them I will make their
heads fly off,--I would not give a penny for all their threats.

The Martin and the Knoville are people of piety,--and pray for
the poor that they may have safety;--Spigurnel and Belflour are
people of cruelty,--if they were in my keeping they should not be
returned.

I would teach them the game of Trailebaston,--and would break
their backbone and their crupper,--their arms and their legs, it
would be but right,--I would cut their tongues and their mouths
likewise.

He who first commenced these things,--never in his life will he
be amended;--I tell you for truth, he has committed therein too
great a sin,--for out of the fear of prison there will be many a
robber made.

He will become a robber who was never so before,--who for fear
of prison dare not come to peace;--it is necessary to have
livelihood every day as it comes;--he who commenced this thing,
undertook a great task.

Well may merchants and monks bestow a curse--on all those who
ordained the Trailebaston;--the royal protection will not be
worth a garlic to them,--if they do not repay the pence without
recompense.

You who are indited, I advise you, come to me,--to the green wood
of Beauregard, there where there is no plea,--except wild beast
and beautiful shade;--for the common law is too much to be feared.

If thou knowest letters, and art enraged,--thou shalt be called
before the justices;--again you may be returned to prison,--in
keeping of the bishop, until you be cleansed;--and suffer
mis-ease and too hard penance,--and perchance you will never have
deliverance.

Therefore it is better to dwell with me in the wood,--than to lie
cast in the bishop’s prison.--Too much is the penance, and hard
to suffer;--he who has the opportunity to select what is better,
is a fool if he does not make the choice.

Before I knew little what was good, now I am less wise;--the bad
laws cause this by very great outrage,--so that I dare not come
to the peace among my kindred;--the rich are put to ransom, the
poor to prison.

It would be penible to engage what cannot be acquitted;--that is
the life of man which is so dearly loved;--and I have not at all
the goods wherewith to be bought off;--but if I were in their
power I should be put to death.

Yet if I should expect grace and hear people talk,--those would
say evil to me who dare not approach me,--and would willingly
see my body disgraced.--But God can save a man in the midst of a
thousand devils.

He can save me, who is the son of Mary;--for I am not culpable, I
am indited out of malice;--God’s curse be on those who drove me
to this place!--The world is so variable, that he is a fool who
trusts in it.

If I am a companion and know archery,--my neighbour will go and
say, “This man belongs to a company,--to go hunt in the wood and
do other folly;”--so now I will live as a pig will lead his life.

If I happen to know more law than they know,--they will say this
conspirator begins to be treasonable,--and I will not approach
home within ten leagues of them;--of all neighbourhoods cursed be
those.

I pray all good people that they will pray for me,--that I may be
able to go and ride to my country;--I was never a homicide, at
least by design,--nor an ill robber to do people damage.

This rhyme was made in the wood beneath a bay tree,--there sings
the thrush, the nightingale, and the hawk cries (?);--it was
written on parchment to be better remembered,--and cast in the
highway, that people may find it.

* * * * *

The following song is a satire upon the numerous retinues of the nobles and rich people, whose idle attendants and servants preyed upon the produce of the industrious peasantry. It shows us how great were the pride and ostentation of the courtiers of the latter years of Edward the First.

A SONG AGAINST THE RETINUES OF THE GREAT PEOPLE.

[MS. Harl. 2253, fol. 124, v^o; of reign of Edw. II.]

Of ribaudz y ryme
Ant rede o mi rolle,
Of gedelynges, gromes,
Of Colyn ant of Colle,
Harlotes, hors-knaves,
Bi pate ant by polle;
To devel ich hem to-lvyre
Ant take to tolle!

The gedelynges were gedered
Of gonnylde gnoste;
Palefreiours ant pages,
Ant boyes with boste;
Alle weren y-haht
Of an horse thoste:
The devel huem afretye,
Rau other a-roste!

The shuppare that huem shupte,
To shome he huem shadde,
To fles ant to fleye,
To tyke ant to tadde;
So seyth Romaunz,
Whose ryht radde,--
Fleh com of flore,
Ant lous com of ladde.

The harlotes bueth horlynges,
Ant haunteth the plawe:
The gedelynges bueth glotouns,
Ant drynketh er hit dawe.
Sathanas huere syre
Seyde on is sawe,
Gobelyn made is gerner
Of gromene mawe.

The knave crommeth is crop,
Er the cok crawe;
He momeleth ant moccheth,
Ant marreth is mawe;
When he is al for-laped,
Ant lad over lawe,
A doseyn of doggen
Ne myhte hyre drawe.

The rybaudz a-ryseth
Er the day rewe;
He shrapeth on is shabbes,
Ant draweth huem to dewe.
Sene is on is browe
Ant on is eȝe-brewe,
That he louseth a losynger,
And shoyeth a shrewe.

Nou beth capel-claweres
With shome to-shrude;
Hue bosketh huem with botouns,
Ase hit were a brude;
With lowe lacede shon
Of an hayfre hude,
Hue pyketh of here provendre
Al huere prude.

Whose rykeneth with knaves
Huere coustage,
The luthernesse of the ladde,
The prude of the page,
Thah he ȝeve hem cattes-dryt
To huere companage,
Ȝet hym shulde a-rewen
Of the arrerage.

Whil God wes on erthe
And wondrede wyde,
Whet wes the resoun
Why he nolde ryde?
For he nolde no grom
To go by ys syde,
Ne grucchyng of no gedelyng
To chaule ne to chyde.

Spedeth ou to spewen,
Ase me doth to spelle;
The fend ou afretie
With fleis ant with felle!
Herkneth hideward, horsmen,
A tidyng ich ou telle,
That ȝe shulen hongen,
Ant herbarewen in helle!

TRANSLATION.--Of ribalds I rhyme--and read in my roll,--of
gadlings, grooms,--of Colin and of Colle,--scoundrels,
horse-boys,--by pate and by poll;--to the devil I them
deliver--and give for toll.

The gadlings were gathered--of ...;--palfrey-keepers and
pages,--and boys with boast;--all were ...--of a horse ...:--may
the devil devour them--raw or roasted!

The maker that made them,--he shed them to shame,--to fleas and
to fly,--to tyke and to toad;--so saith Romanz,--whoever read
right,--fly comes of flower,--and louse comes of lad.

The rogues are horelings,--and haunt the play:--the gadlings are
gluttons,--and drink before it dawns.--Satan their sire--said in
his saying,--Goblin made his garner--of the grooms’ maw.

The knave crams his crop--before the cock crows;--he mumbles
and mocks,--and marrs his maw;--when he is all weary of lapping
(?),--and laid over law,--a dozen of dogs--could not draw him.

The ribalds arise--before the day breaks;--they scrape on their
scabs,--and draw themselves to the dew.--Seen it is on his
forehead--and on his eye-brows, that he looseth a flatterer,--and
shoeth a shrew.

Now are horse-clawers--shamefully clothed;--they busk them with
buttons--as it were a bride:--with low laced shoes--of a heifer’s
hide,--they pick out of their provender--all their pride.

Whoever reckons with knaves--their expense,--the perverseness
of the lad,--the pride of the page,--though he give them cats’
dirt--for their sustenance,--yet he shall rue--of the arrears.

While God was on earth--and wandered wide,--what was the
reason--why he would not ride?--Because he would not have a
groom--to go by his side,--nor the grudging of any gadling--to
jaw or to chide.

Haste you to spew,--as men do to spell (talk);--may the fiend
devour you--with flesh and with skin!--Harken this way,
horsemen,--a tiding I tell you,--that ye shall hang,--and be
lodged in hell.

REIGN OF EDWARD II. 1307-1327.

Edward the First quitted the stage at a period when wars from without and internal troubles were gathering fast over his country. His son and successor, a weak and ill-advised prince, was little calculated to repel the one or to calm the other; and the following song shows us that, contrary to the general rule in such cases, the people were more sorrowful for their loss than pleased with the novelty of a new monarch.

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD I.

[MS. Bibl. Publ. Cantab. Gg. I. 1, fol. 489, of the reign of Edw. II.]

Seigniurs, oiez, pur Dieu le grant,
Chançonete de dure pité,
De la mort un rei vaillaunt;
Homme fu de grant bounté,
E que par sa leauté
Mut grant encuntre ad sustenue;
Ceste chose est bien prové;
De sa terre n’ad rien perdue.
Priom Dieu en devocioun
Que de ses pecchez le face pardoun.

De Engletere il fu sire,
E rey qe mut savoit de guere;
En nule livre puet home lire
De rei qe mieuz sustint sa tere.
Toutes les choses qu’il vodreit fere,
Sagement les tinst à fine.
Ore si gist soun cors en tere:
Si va le siècle en decline.

Le rei de Fraunce grant pecché fist,
Le passage à desturber
Qe rei Edward pur Dieu emprist,
Sur Sarazins l’ewe passer.
Sun tresour fust outre la mere,
E ordine sa purveaunce
Seint eglise pur sustenire:
Ore est la tere en desperaunce.

Jerusalem, tu as perdu
La flour de ta chivalerie,
Rey Edward le viel chanu,
Qe tant ama ta seignurie.
Ore est-il mort; jeo ne sai mie
Toun baner qi le meintindra:
Sun duz quor par grant druerie
Outre la mere vous mandera.

Un jour avant que mort li prist,
Od son barnage voleit parler;
Les chivalers devant li vist,
Durement commenca de plurer.
“Jeo murrai,” dist, “par estover,
Jeo vei ma mort que me vent quere;
Fetes mon fiz rey corouner,
Qe Dampnt-Dieu li don bien fere!”

A Peiters à l’apostoile
Une messager la mort li dist;
E la Pape vesti l’estole,
A dure lermes les lettres prist.
“Alas!” ceo dist, “comment? morist
A qi Dieu donna tant honur?
A l’alme en face Dieu mercist!
De seint eglise il fu la flour.”

L’apostoile en sa chambre entra,
A pein le poeit sustenir;
E les cardinals trestuz manda,
Durement commenca de plurir.
Les cardinals li funt teisir,
En haut commencent lur servise:
Parmy la cité funt sonir,
Et servir Dieu en seint eglise.

L’apostoile meimes vint à la messe,
Oue mult grant sollempnité;
L’alme pur soudre sovent se dresse,
E dist par grant humilité:
“Place à Dieu en Trinité,
Qe vostre fiz en pust conquere
Jerusalem la digne cité,
E passer en la seinte tere!”

Le jeofne Edward d’Engletere
Rey est enoint e corouné:
Dieu le doint teil conseil trere,
Ki le pais seit gouverné;
E la coroune si garder,
Qe la tere seit entere,
E lui crestre en bounté,
Car prodhome i fust son pere.

Si Aristotle fuste en vie,
E Virgile qe savoit l’art,
Les valurs ne dirr[ai]ent mie
Del prodhome la disme part.
Ore est mort le rei Edward,
Pur qui mon quor est en trafoun;
L’alme Dieu la salve garde,
Pur sa seintime passioun! AMEN.

TRANSLATION.--Lords, listen, for the sake of God the great,--a
little song of grievous sorrow,--for the death of a precious
king;--a man he was of great goodness,--and who by his
loyalty--has sustained many a great encounter;--this thing is
proved well;--of his land he lost none.--Let us pray God with
devotion--that he pardon him his sins.

Of England he was lord,--and a king who knew much of war;--in no
book can we read--of a king who sustained better his land.--All
the things which he would do,--wisely he brought them to an
end.--Now his body lies in the earth;--and the world is going to
ruin.

The King of France did great sin,--to hinder the voyage--which
King Edward undertook for God’s sake,--to pass the water against
the Saracens.--His treasure was beyond the sea,--and he ordains
his purveyance--to sustain holy church:--now is the land in
despair.

Jerusalem, thou hast lost--the flower of thy chivalry,--King
Edward the old and hoary,--who loved so much thy lordship.--Now
he is dead; I know not at all--who will maintain thy banner:--his
gentle heart for great love--he will send you over the sea.

One day before death took him,--he would talk with his
baronage;--he saw the knights before him,--grievously he began
to weep.--“I shall die,” he said, “of necessity,--I see my death
which comes to seek me;--cause my son to be crowned king,--may
the Lord God give him grace to do well!”

At Poitiers to the pope--a messenger told his death;--and
the pope put on the stole,--with bitter tears he took the
letters.--“Alas!” he said, “how? is he dead--to whom God gave so
much honour?--May God grant mercy to his soul!--he was the flower
of holy church.”

The pope entered in his chamber,--he could scarcely support
it;--and he sent for all the cardinals,--grievously he began to
weep.--The cardinals made him desist,--aloud they begin their
service they cause the bells to be rung through the city,--and
God’s service to be performed in holy church.

The pope himself came to the mass,--with very great
solemnity;--he often applies himself to absolve the soul,--and
said in great humility:--“May it please God in Trinity,--that
your son may effect the conquest--of Jerusalem the noble
city,--and pass into the Holy Land!”

The young Edward of England--is anointed and crowned king:--may
God grant that he follow such counsel,--that the country may
be governed;--and so to keep the crown,--that the land may be
entire,--and himself to increase in goodness,--for his father was
a worthy man.

If Aristotle were alive,--and Virgil who knew skill,--they would
not say the value--of the worthy man a tenth part.--Now is dead
King Edward,--for whom my heart is in desolation;--may God
preserve his soul in safety,--for the sake of his holy passion!
Amen.

* * * * *

The following song, in English, on the same event, is preserved in another manuscript. It is somewhat singular that one of these songs is clearly translated from the other, the variations being comparatively small, and consisting chiefly in the transposition of some of the stanzas. The French song was probably the original.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD I.

[MS. Harl. No. 2253, fol. 73, r^o. of the reign of Edw. II.]

Alle that beoth of huerte trewe,
A stounde herkneth to my song,
Of duel that deth hath diht us newe,
That maketh me syke ant sorewe among;
Of a knyht that wes so strong,
Of wham God hath don ys wille:
Me thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong,
That he so sone shal ligge stille.

Al Englond ahte for te knowe
Of wham that song is that y synge;--
Of Edward kyng that lith so lowe,
Ȝent al this world is nome con springe.
Trewest mon of alle thinge,
Ant in werre war ant wys,
For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,
Of Christendome he ber the prys.

Byfore that oure kyng wes ded,
He speke ase mon that wes in care,--
“Clerkes, knyhtes, barouns,” he sayde,
“Y charge ou by oure sware,
That ȝe to Engelonde be trewe.
Y deȝe, y ne may lyven na more;
Helpeth mi sone ant crouneth him newe,
For he is nest to buen y-core.

“Ich biquethe myn herte aryht,
That hit be write at mi devys,
Over the see that hue be diht,
With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,
In werre that buen war ant wys,
Aȝeyn the hethene for te fyhte,
To wynne the croiz that lowe lys;
Myself ycholde ȝef that y myhte.”

Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest sunne,
That thou the counsail woldest fonde,
To latte the wille of kyng Edward
To wende to the holy londe:
That oure kyng hede take on honde
Al Engelond to ȝeme ant wysse,
To wenden into the Holy Londe,
To wynnen us heve[n]riche blisse.

The messager to the Pope com,
And seyde that oure kynge wes ded:
Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,
Y-wis his herte wes ful gret:
The Pope himself the lettre redde,
Ant spec a word of gret honour,--
“Alas!” he seide, “is Edward ded?
Of Christendome he ber the flour!”

The Pope to is chaumbre wende,
For del ne mihte he speke na more;
Ant after cardinals he sende,
That muche couthen of Cristes lore,
Bothe the lasse ant eke the more,
Bed hem bothe rede ant synge:
Gret deol me myhte se thore,
Mony mon is honde wrynge.

The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse,
With ful gret solempneté,
Ther me con the soule blesse:--
“Kyng Edward, honoured thou be!
God lene thi sone come after the
Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne;
The holy crois y-mad of tre,
So fain thou woldest hit han y-wonne!

“Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore
The flour of al chivalerie;
Now Kyng Edward liveth na more:--
Alas! that he ȝet shulde deye!
He wolde ha rered up fol heyȝe
Oure baners, that bueth broht to grounde;
Wel longe we mowe clepe and crie
Er we a such kyng han y-founde!”

Nou is Edward of Carnarvan
King of Engelond al aplyht,
God lete him ner be worse man
Then is fader, ne lasse of myht
To holden is pore-men to ryht,
Ant understonde good consail,
Al Engelond for te wisse ant diht;
Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.

Thah mi tonge were mad of stel,
Ant min herte y-ȝote of bras,
The godnesse myht y never telle
That with Kyng Edward was:
Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour,
In uch bataille thou hadest pris;
God bringe thi soule to the honour
That ever wes ant ever ys,
That lesteth ay withouten ende!
Bidde we God ant oure Ledy,
To thilke blisse Jesus us sende. AMEN.

TRANSLATION.--All that are true of heart,--a while hearken to my
song,--of grief that death hath wrought us now,--which makes me
sigh and sorrow in turns.--Of a knight that was so powerful,--on
whom God hath done his will;--methinks that death has done us
wrong,--that he so soon shall lie still.

All England ought to know--of whom the song is that I sing;--of
Edward the king that lies so low,--through all this world his
name sprang.--Trewest man of all things,--and in war wary and
wise,--for him we ought our hands to wring,--of Christendom he
bare the prize.

Before that our king was dead,--he spoke as one that was in
care,--“Clergy, knights, barons,” he said,--“I charge you by
your oath,--that ye to England be true.--I die, I may not live
any more;--help my son, and crown him now,--for he is next to be
chosen.

“I bequeath my heart rightly,--that it be written at my
devise,--over the sea that it be sent,--with fourscore knights
all of repute,--in war that are wary and wise,--against the
heathen for to fight,--to win the cross which lies low;--myself
I would [go] if I could.”

King of France, thou hadst sin,--that thou shouldest seek
counsel,--to hinder the will of King Edward--to go to the Holy
Land:--that our king had taken in hand--all England to rule and
teach,--to go into the Holy Land,--to win us heaven’s bliss.

The messenger to the pope came,--and said that our king was
dead:--to his own hand the letter he took,--truly his heart
was very full:--the pope himself the letter read,--and spake a
word of great honour,--“Alas!” he said, “is Edward dead?--of
Christendom he bare the flower!”

The pope to his chamber went,--he could speak no more for
grief;--and after the cardinals he sent,--who knew much of
Christ’s doctrine,--both the less and also the greater,--bade
them both read and sing;--great grief might be seen there,--many
a man to wring his hands.

The pope of Poitiers stood at his mass,--with very great
solemnity,--there they began to bless the soul:--“King Edward,
honoured be thou!--God give thy son, who comes after thee,--to
bring to end what thou hast begun;--the holy cross made of
wood,--so fain thou wouldst it have won.

“Jerusalem, thou hast lost--the flower of all chivalry;--now King
Edward lives no more:--Alas! that he yet should die!--He would
have reared up full high--our banners, that are brought to the
ground;--very long we may call and cry--before we have found such
a king!”

Now is Edward of Caernarvon--entirely King of England,--God let
him never be worse man--than his father, nor less of might--to
hold his commons to right,--and to understand good counsel,--all
England to direct and manage;--of good knights there need not
fail him.

Though my tongue were made of steel,--and my heart produced out
of brass,--I could never tell the goodness--that was with King
Edward:--King, as thou art called conqueror,--in each battle thou
haddest prize;--God bring thy soul to the honour--which ever was
and ever is,--which lasts ever without end!--Pray we God and our
Lady,--to that bliss Jesus us send! AMEN.

* * * * *

The old cry against the oppression of the poor and honest by the rich, and the general corruption of the age, is repeated in the following piece. It probably describes the state of feeling amongst many in the earlier years of Edward’s reign.

SONG ON THE TIMES.

[MS. Reg. 12, C. XII. fol. 7, r^o. of reign of Edw. II.]

Quant honme deit parleir, videat quæ verba loquatur;
Sen covent aver, ne stultior inveniatur.
Quando quis loquitur, bote resoun reste therynne,
Derisum patitur, ant lutel so shal he wynne.
En seynt eglise sunt multi sæpe priores;
Summe beoth wyse, multi sunt inferiores.
When mon may mest do, tunc velle suum manifestat,
In donis also, si vult tibi præmia præstat.
Ingrato benefac, post hæc à peyne te verra;
Pur bon vin tibi lac non dat, nec rem tibi rendra.
Sensum custodi, quasi mieu valt sen qe ta mesoun;
Thah thou be mody, robur nichil est sine resoun.
Lex lyth doun over al, fallax fraus fallit ubique;
Ant love nys bote smal, quia gens se gestat inique.
Wo walketh wyde, quoniam movet ira potentes:
Ryht con nout ryde, quia vadit ad insipientes.
Dummodo fraus superest, lex nul nout lonen y londe;
Et quia sic res est, ryth may nout radlyche stonde.
Fals mon freynt covenaunt, quamvis tibi dicat, “habebis.”
Vix dabit un veu gaunt, lene les mon postea flebis.
Myn ant thyn duo sunt, qui frangunt plebis amorem;
Ce deus pur nus sunt facienda sæpe dolorem.
Tresoun dampnificat, et paucis est data resoun;
Resoun certificat, confundit et omnia tresoun.
Pees may nout wel be, dum stat per nomina bina;
Lord Crist, that thou se, per te sit in hiis medicina!
Infirmus moritur, thah lechcraft ligge bysyde;
Vivus decipitur, nis non that her shal abyde
Tels plusours troverez, qui de te plurima prendrount;
Au dreyn bien verrez, quod nullam rem tibi rendrount.
Esto pacificus, so myh thou welde thy wylle;
Also veridicus, ant stond pro tempore stille.
Pees seit en tere, per te, Deus, alma potestas!
Defendez guere, ne nos invadat egestas.
God Lord Almyhty, da pacem, Christe benigne!
Thou const al dyhty, fac ne pereamus in igne!

TRANSLATION.--When a man has to speak, let him consider what
words he utters;--he ought to pay attention to them, lest
he appear a fool.--When any one speaks, unless reason rest
therein,--he is laughed at, and so he shall gain little.--In holy
church there are often many who hold advanced situations;--some
are wise, many are inferior.--When a man may do most, then he
exhibits his will,--in gifts also, if he will he gives thee
presents.--Do a kindness to an ungrateful man, and afterwards
he will scarcely look at you;--he will not even give you
milk for good wine, nor will he make you any return.--Take
care of thy intellect, as of a thing which is worth more
than thy house;--although thou be moody, strength is nothing
without reason.--Law lies down over all, false fraud deceives
everywhere;--and there is but little love, because people
conduct themselves wickedly.--Woe walks wide, since anger moves
those who are powerful;--right cannot ride, because it goes to
the ignorant.--Now that fraud is alive, law will not dwell in
the land;--and since the matter is in that position, right may
not easily stand.--The false man breaks his promise, although
he say to thee, “thou shalt have it.”--He will scarcely give
an old glove, ... thou shalt afterwards weep.--Mine and thine
are two, which break the love of the people;--these two for
us will cause frequent grief.--Treason injures, and reason
is given to few;--reason makes sure, while treason confounds
all things.--Peace may not well be, while it stands by two
names;--Lord Christ, do thou look to it, through thee may there
be a medicine for these things!--The sick man dies, although the
art of medicine lie by his side;--the living man is deceived,
there is none who shall abide here.--You will find many such as
will take very much from you;--in the end you will see well,
that they will return you nothing.--Be pacific, so mayest thou
possess thy will;--also a teller of truth, and stand for the time
still.--May there be peace in the land, through thee, God, kind
power!--forbid war, lest want invade us.--Good Lord Almighty,
give peace, O benignant Christ!--Thou canst do all things, hinder
us from perishing in the fire.

* * * * *

The following song appears to have been made in the latter end of the year 1311, on the occasion of the King’s journey to the North, where he was joined by his lately banished favourite, Peter de Gaveston, and disregarded the charter which he had confirmed in the beginning of the October of that year.

ON THE KING’S BREAKING HIS CONFIRMATION OF MAGNA CHARTA.

[The Auchinleck MS. in the Advocates’ Library, at Edinburgh, art. 21, of the reign of Edw. II.]

L’en puet fere et defere,
Ceo fait-il trop sovent;
It nis nouther wel ne faire;
Therfore Engelond is shent.
Nostre prince de Engletere,
Par le consail de sa gent,
At Westminster after the feire
Made a gret parlement.
La chartre fet de cyre,
Jeo l’enteink et bien le crey,
It was holde to neih the fire,
And is molten al awey.
Ore ne say mès que dire,
Tout i va à Tripolay,
Hundred, chapitle, court, and shire,
Al hit goth a devel way.
Des plusages de la tere
Ore escotez un sarmoun,
Of iiij. wise-men that ther were,
Whi Engelond is brouht adoun.

The ferste seide, “I understonde
Ne may no king wel ben in londe,
Under God Almihte,
But he cunne himself rede,
Hou he shal in londe lede
Everi man wid rihte.
For might is riht,
Liht is night,
And fiht is fliht.
For miht is riht, the lond is laweles;
For niht is liht, the lond is loreles;
For fiht is fliht, the lond is nameles.”

That other seide a word ful god,
“Whoso roweth aȝein the flod,
Off sorwe he shal drinke;
Also hit fareth bi the unsele,
A man shal have litel hele
Ther agein to swinke.
Nu on is two,
Another is wo,
And frend is fo.
For on is two, that lond is streintheles;
For wel is wo, the lond is reutheles;
For frend is fo, the lond is loveles.”

That thridde seide, “It is no wonder
Off thise eyres that goth under,
Whan theih comen to londe
Proude and stoute, and ginneth ȝelpe,
Ac of thing that sholde helpe
Have theih noht on honde.
Nu lust haveth leve,
Thef is reve,
And pride hath sleve.
For lust hath leve, the lond is theweles;
For thef is reve, the lond is penyles;
For pride hath sleve, the lond is almusles.”

The ferthe seide, that he is wod
That dwelleth to muchel in the flod,
For gold or for auhte;
For gold or silver, or any wele,
Hunger or thurst, hete or chele,
Al shal gon to nohte.
Nu wille is red,
Wit is qued,
And god is ded.
For wille is red, the lond is wrecful;
For wit is qued, the lond is wrongful;
For god is ded, the lond is sinful.

Wid wordes as we han pleid,
Sum wisdom we han seid
Off olde men and ȝunge;
Off many a thinge that is in londe,
Whoso coude it understonde,
So have I told wid tongue.

Riche and pore, bonde and fre,
That love is god, ȝe mai se;
Love clepeth ech man brother;
For it that he to blame be,
Forȝif hit him _par charité_,
Al theih he do other.

Love we God, and he us alle,
That was born in an oxe stalle,
And for us don on rode.
His swete herte-blod he let
For us, and us faire het
That we sholde be gode.

Be we nu gode and stedefast,
So that we muwen at the last
Haven hevene blisse.
To God Almihti I preie
Lat us never in sinne deie,
That joye for to misse.

Ac lene us alle so don here,
And leve in love and god manere,
The devel for to shende;
That we moten alle i-fere
Sen him that us bouhte dere,
In joye withoute ende. AMEN.

TRANSLATION.--A person may make, and unmake,--it is what he
too often does;--it is neither well nor fair;--on account of
it England is ruined.--Our prince of England,--by the counsel
of his people,--at Westminster after the fair--made a great
parliament.--The charter he made of wax,--so I understand, and
I readily believe it,--it was held too near the fire,--and is
all melted away.--Now I know not what more to say,--all goes to
Tripoly,--hundred, chapter, court, and shire,--all it goes the
devil’s way.--Of the wisest men of the land--now listen to a
discourse,--of four wise men that there were,--why England is
brought down.

The first said, “I understand--no king may be prosperous in
land--under God Almighty,--unless he can counsel himself,--how
he shall in land lead--every man with right.--For might is
right,--light is darkness,--and fight is flight.--Because might
is right, the land is lawless;--because darkness is light, the
land is without doctrine;--because fight is flight, the land is
without reputation.”

The second said a very good word,--“Whoever rows against
the flood,--he shall drink of sorrow;--thus it fares by the
unfortunate,--a man shall have little strength--to labour
against it.--Now one is two,--another is woe,--and friend is
foe.--Because one is two, the land is without strength;--because
weal is woe, the land is without ruth;--because friend is foe,
the land is without love.”

The third said, “It is no wonder--of these heirs that go
under,--when they come to land--proud and stout, and begin to
yelp,--but of anything that might help--they have nought in
hand.--Now lust hath leave,--thief is magistrate,--and pride
hath sleeves.--Because lust hath leave, the land is destitute
of morality;--because thief is magistrate, the land is
pennyless;--because pride hath sleeves, the land is without alms.”

The fourth said, “That he is mad--who dwells too much in
the flood,--for gold or for property;--for gold or silver,
or any weal,--hunger or thirst, heat or cold,--all shall
go to nothing.--Now will is counsel,--wit is wicked,--and
good is dead.--Because will is counsel, the land is full
of revenge;--because wit is wicked, the land is full of
wrong;--because good is dead, the land is full of sin.”

With words as we have played,--some wisdom we have said--of old
men and young;--of many a thing that is in land,--whoever might
understand it,--thus have I told with tongue.

Rich and poor, bond and free,--that love is good, ye may
see;--love calls every man brother;--for that for which he may be
to blame,--forgive it him in charity,--although he do other.

Love we God, and may he love us all,--who was born in an oxe’s
stable,--and for us placed on the cross.--His sweet heart’s blood
he shed--for us, and bade us fairly--that we should be good.

Be we now good and steadfast,--so that we may at last--have the
bliss of heaven.--To God Almighty I pray,--let us never die in
sin,--to miss that joy.

But grant us all so to do here,--and live in love and good
manner,--the devil for to shame;--that we may all in company--see
him that bought us dearly,--in joy everlasting. AMEN.

* * * * *

Edward’s wretched favourite, Peter de Gaveston, was beheaded by the Barons in the May of 1312. The two following songs exhibit the general feeling of exultation which attended this execution. It is scarcely necessary to say that they are parodies on two hymns in the old church service.

SONGS ON THE DEATH OF PETER DE GAVESTON.

[MS. Trin. Coll. Cambr. O. 9. 38. 15th cent. on paper.]