III.AN ORIGINAL BALLAD BY CHAUCER.

Wehave here an early attempt at elegy. Edward I. died July 7, 1307, in the 35th year of his reign, and 69th of his age. This poem appears to have been composed soon after his death. According to the modes of thinking peculiar to those times, the writer dwells more upon his devotion than his skill in government, and pays less attention to the martial and political abilities of this great monarch, in which he had no equal, than to some little weaknesses of superstition, which he had in common with all his contemporaries. The king had in the decline of life vowed an expedition to the Holy Land, but finding his end approach, he dedicated the sum of£32,000 to the maintenance of a large body of knights (140 say historians, eighty says our poet), who were to carry his heart with them into Palestine. This dying command of the king was never performed. Our poet, with the honest prejudices of an Englishman, attributes this failure to the advice of the king of France, whose daughter Isabel, the young monarch, who succeeded, immediately married. But the truth is, Edward and his destructive favourite, Piers Gaveston, spent the money upon their pleasures. To do the greater honour to the memory of his heroe, our poet puts his eloge in the mouth of the Pope, with the same poetic licence as a more modern bard would have introduced Britannia or the Genius of Europe pouring forth his praises.

This antique elegy is extracted from the same MS. volume as the preceding article; is found with the same peculiarities of writing and orthography; and tho' written at near the distance of half a century contains little or no variation of idiom: whereas the next following poem by Chaucer, which was probably written not more than fifty or sixty years after this, exhibits almost a newlanguage. This seems to countenance the opinion of some antiquaries, that this great poet made considerable innovations in his mother tongue, and introduced many terms, and new modes of speech from other languages.

[When Henry III. died, highly laudatory songs were sung in honour of the new king, but when Edward I. died the people were too grieved at their loss to sing the praise of his successor. The present song is printed by Mr. Thomas Wright in hisPoliticalSongs of England(Camden Society, 1839, p. 246), where he also prints a French version, and points out that the one is clearly translated from the other, adding that the French song was probably the original. In verse 27, Percy printed hue (i.e.she) with a capital H, under the impression that it was "the name of the person who was to preside over the business."]

Alle, that beoth of huerte trewe,[41]A stounde herkneth[42]to my songOf duel,[43]that Deth hath diht[44]us newe,That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among;Of a knyht, that wes so strong,5Of wham God hath don ys wille;Me-thuncheth[45]that deth hath don us wrong,That he so sone shall ligge stille.[46]Al Englond ahte[47]for te knoweOf wham that song is, that y synge;10Of Edward kyng, that lith[48]so lowe,Yent[49]al this world is nome con springe:[50]Trewest mon of alle thinge,Ant in werre war ant wys,[51]For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,[52]15Of Christendome he ber the prys.Byfore that oure kyng was ded,He spek ase[53]mon that wes in care,"Clerkes, knyhtes, barons, he sayde,"Y charge ou by oure sware[54],20"That ye to Engelonde be trewe."Y deye, y ne may lyven na more;[55]"Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe,"For he is nest to buen y-core.[56]"Ich biqueth myn herte aryht,[57]25"That hit be write at mi devys,[58]"Over the see that hue be diht,[59]"With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,"In werre that buen war ant wys,"Ayein the hethene for te fyhte,30"To wynne the croiz[60]that lowe lys,"Myself y cholde yef[61]that y myhte."Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest[62]'sinne,'[63]That thou the counsail woldest fonde,[64]To latte[65]the wille of 'Edward kyng'[66]35To wende to the holy londe:That oure kyng hede take on hondeAll Engelond to yeme ant wysse,[67]To wenden in to the holy londeTo wynnen us heve[n]riche[68]blisse.40The messager to the pope com,And seyde that our kynge was ded:Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,[69][70]Ywis[71]his herte was full gret:[72]The Pope him self the lettre redde,45Ant spec[73]a word of gret honour."Alas! he seid, is Edward ded?"Of Christendome he ber the flour."The Pope to is chaumbre wende,For dol[74]ne mihte he speke na more;50Ant after cardinals he sende,That muche couthen[75]of Cristes lore,Bothe the lasse,[76]ant eke the more,Bed hem bothe rede ant synge:Gret deol me myhte se thore,[77][78]55Mony mon is honde wrynge.The Pope of Peyters[79]stod at is masseWith ful gret solempnetè,Ther me con[80]the soule blesse:[78]"Kyng Edward honoured thou be:60"God lene[81]thi sone come after the,"Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne,"The holy crois y-mad of tre,[82]"So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne."Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore[83]65"The flour of al chivalrie"Now kyng Edward liveth na more:"Alas! that he yet shulde deye!"He wolde ha rered up ful heyye[84]"Oure banners, that bueth broht[85]to grounde;"Wel longe we mowe clepe[86]and crie71"Er we a such kyng han y-founde."Nou is Edward of CarnarvanKing of Engelond al aplyht,[87]God lete him ner be worse man75Then his fader, ne lasse of myht,To holden is pore men to ryht,And understonde good counsail,Al Engelond for to wysse ant dyht;[88]Of gode knyhtes darh[89]him nout fail80Thah[90]mi tonge were mad of stel,Ant min herte y-yote[91]of bras,The godness myht y never telle,That with kyng Edward was:Kyng, as thou art cleped[92]conquerour,85In uch[93]bataille thou hadest prys;God bringe thi soule to the honour,That ever wes, ant ever ys.

Al Englond ahte[47]for te knoweOf wham that song is, that y synge;10Of Edward kyng, that lith[48]so lowe,Yent[49]al this world is nome con springe:[50]Trewest mon of alle thinge,Ant in werre war ant wys,[51]For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,[52]15Of Christendome he ber the prys.

Byfore that oure kyng was ded,He spek ase[53]mon that wes in care,"Clerkes, knyhtes, barons, he sayde,"Y charge ou by oure sware[54],20"That ye to Engelonde be trewe."Y deye, y ne may lyven na more;[55]"Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe,"For he is nest to buen y-core.[56]

"Ich biqueth myn herte aryht,[57]25"That hit be write at mi devys,[58]"Over the see that hue be diht,[59]"With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,"In werre that buen war ant wys,"Ayein the hethene for te fyhte,30"To wynne the croiz[60]that lowe lys,"Myself y cholde yef[61]that y myhte."

Kyng of Fraunce, thou hevedest[62]'sinne,'[63]That thou the counsail woldest fonde,[64]To latte[65]the wille of 'Edward kyng'[66]35To wende to the holy londe:That oure kyng hede take on hondeAll Engelond to yeme ant wysse,[67]To wenden in to the holy londeTo wynnen us heve[n]riche[68]blisse.40

The messager to the pope com,And seyde that our kynge was ded:Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,[69][70]Ywis[71]his herte was full gret:[72]The Pope him self the lettre redde,45Ant spec[73]a word of gret honour."Alas! he seid, is Edward ded?"Of Christendome he ber the flour."

The Pope to is chaumbre wende,For dol[74]ne mihte he speke na more;50Ant after cardinals he sende,That muche couthen[75]of Cristes lore,Bothe the lasse,[76]ant eke the more,Bed hem bothe rede ant synge:Gret deol me myhte se thore,[77][78]55Mony mon is honde wrynge.

The Pope of Peyters[79]stod at is masseWith ful gret solempnetè,Ther me con[80]the soule blesse:[78]"Kyng Edward honoured thou be:60"God lene[81]thi sone come after the,"Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne,"The holy crois y-mad of tre,[82]"So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.

"Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore[83]65"The flour of al chivalrie"Now kyng Edward liveth na more:"Alas! that he yet shulde deye!"He wolde ha rered up ful heyye[84]"Oure banners, that bueth broht[85]to grounde;"Wel longe we mowe clepe[86]and crie71"Er we a such kyng han y-founde."

Nou is Edward of CarnarvanKing of Engelond al aplyht,[87]God lete him ner be worse man75Then his fader, ne lasse of myht,To holden is pore men to ryht,And understonde good counsail,Al Engelond for to wysse ant dyht;[88]Of gode knyhtes darh[89]him nout fail80

Thah[90]mi tonge were mad of stel,Ant min herte y-yote[91]of bras,The godness myht y never telle,That with kyng Edward was:Kyng, as thou art cleped[92]conquerour,85In uch[93]bataille thou hadest prys;God bringe thi soule to the honour,That ever wes, ant ever ys.

⁂ Here follow in the original three lines more, which, as seemingly redundant, we chuse to throw to the bottom of the page, viz.:

"That lasteth ay withouten ende,Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke blisseJesus us sende. Amen."

FOOTNOTES:[41][are of true heart.][42][for a while hearken ye.][43][grief.][44][wrought.][45][methinketh.][46][lie still.][47][ought.][48][lieth.][49][through.][50][his name spread abroad.][51][in war wary and wise.][52][hands wring.][53][as.][54][I charge you by your oath.][55][I die, I may not live more.][56][next to be chosen.][57][rightly.][58][devise.][59][she be sent (see Glossary).][60][cross.][61][I would if.][62][hadst.][63]Ver. 33. sunne, MS.[64][try.][65][hinder.][66]Ver. 35. kyng Edward, MS.[67][govern and teach.][68][heavenly.][69][took.][70]Ver. 43.ysis probably a contraction ofin hysoryn his.[71][verily.][72][grieved.][73][spake.][74][grief.][75][knew.][76][less.][77][great grief might be seen there.][78]Ver. 55, 59.Me,i.e.Men, so in Robert of Gloucester,passim.[79][Peter's.][80][there they began.][81][give.][82][cross made of wood.][83][lost.][84][high.][85][are brought.][86][very long we may call. Percy printed this incorrectly, Well longe.][87][entirely.][88][to govern and order.][89][need.][90][though.][91][cast.][92][called.][93][each.]

[41][are of true heart.]

[42][for a while hearken ye.]

[43][grief.]

[44][wrought.]

[45][methinketh.]

[46][lie still.]

[47][ought.]

[48][lieth.]

[49][through.]

[50][his name spread abroad.]

[51][in war wary and wise.]

[52][hands wring.]

[53][as.]

[54][I charge you by your oath.]

[55][I die, I may not live more.]

[56][next to be chosen.]

[57][rightly.]

[58][devise.]

[59][she be sent (see Glossary).]

[60][cross.]

[61][I would if.]

[62][hadst.]

[63]Ver. 33. sunne, MS.

[64][try.]

[65][hinder.]

[66]Ver. 35. kyng Edward, MS.

[67][govern and teach.]

[68][heavenly.]

[69][took.]

[70]Ver. 43.ysis probably a contraction ofin hysoryn his.

[71][verily.]

[72][grieved.]

[73][spake.]

[74][grief.]

[75][knew.]

[76][less.]

[77][great grief might be seen there.]

[78]Ver. 55, 59.Me,i.e.Men, so in Robert of Gloucester,passim.

[79][Peter's.]

[80][there they began.]

[81][give.]

[82][cross made of wood.]

[83][lost.]

[84][high.]

[85][are brought.]

[86][very long we may call. Percy printed this incorrectly, Well longe.]

[87][entirely.]

[88][to govern and order.]

[89][need.]

[90][though.]

[91][cast.]

[92][called.]

[93][each.]

Thislittle sonnet, which hath escaped all the editors of Chaucer's works, is now printed for the first time from an ancient MS. in the Pepysian Library, that contains many other poems of its venerable author. The versification is of that species, which the French callrondeau, very naturally Englished by our honest countrymenround O. Tho' soearly adopted by them, our ancestors had not the honour of inventing it: Chaucer picked it up, along with other better things, among the neighbouring nations. A fondness for laborious trifles hath always prevailed in the dark ages of literature. The Greek poets have had their wings and axes: the great father of English poesy may therefore be pardoned one poor solitaryrondeau.—Geofrey Chaucer died Oct. 25, 1400.

[These verses are printed in Morris'sAldine Edition of Chaucer(vol. vi. pp. 304-5), but there is no conclusive evidence that they are really by Chaucer. Mr. Furnivall writes (Trial Forewords, Chaucer Society, 1871, p. 32):—"With thePityI should like much to class theRoundel... as one of the poet's genuine works, though it is not assigned to him (so far as I know), by any MS. of authority. It exactly suits theCompleynte of Pite; there is nothing in it (so far as I can see), to make it not Chaucer's, and it is of the same form as his Roundel in theParliament of Foules." Mr. Hales suggests to me that the poem may have been written by one of Chaucer's followers, and refers to verse 260 of theKnight'sTale:

"The freissche beauté sleeth me sodeynly,"

as having probably given the hint to the writer of thisrondeau.]

I. 1.

Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly,I may the beaute of them not sustene,So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.

And but your words will helen hastelyMy hertis wound, while that it is grene,Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly.

Upon my trouth I sey yow feithfully,That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene;For with my deth the trouth shal be sene.Youre two eyn, &c.

II. 1.

So hath youre beauty fro your herte chasedPitee, that me n' availeth not to pleyn;[94]For daunger halt[95]your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltless my deth thus have ye purchased;I sey yow soth,[96]me nedeth not to fayn:So hath your beaute fro your herte chased.

Alas, that nature hath in yow compassedSo grete beaute, that no man may atteynTo mercy, though he sterve for the peyn.So hath youre beaute, &c.

III. 1.

Syn I fro love escaped am so fat,I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene;Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.[97]

He may answere, and sey this and that,I do no fors,[98]I speak ryght as I mene;Syn I fro love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat,And he is strike out of my bokes clene:For ever mo 'ther'[99]is non other mene.Syn I fro love escaped, &c.

FOOTNOTES:[94][complain.][95][holdeth.][96][I tell you truth.][97][bean, a term of contempt.][98][I do not care.][99]This, MS.

[94][complain.]

[95][holdeth.]

[96][I tell you truth.]

[97][bean, a term of contempt.]

[98][I do not care.]

[99]This, MS.

Or, the Wooeing, Winning, and Wedding ofTibbe, the Reev's Daughter there.

Itdoes honour to the good sense of this nation, that while all Europe was captivated with the bewitching charms of chivalry and romance, two of our writers in the rudest times could see thro' the false glare that surrounded them, and discover whatever was absurd in them both. Chaucer wrote hisRhyme of Sir Thopasin ridicule of the latter; and in the following poem we have a humorous burlesque of the former. Without pretending to decide, whether the institution of chivalry was upon the whole useful or pernicious in the rude ages, a question that has lately employed many good writers,[100]it evidently encouraged a vindictive spirit, and gave such force to the custom of duelling, that there is little hope of its being abolished. This, together with the fatal consequences which often attended the diversion of the turnament, was sufficient to render it obnoxious to the graver part of mankind. Accordingly the Church early denounced its censures against it, and the State was often prevailed on to attempt its suppression. But fashion and opinion are superior to authority: and the proclamations against tilting were as little regarded in those times, as the laws against duelling are in these. This did not escape the discernment of our poet, who easily perceived that inveterate opinions must be attacked by other weapons, besides proclamations and censures: he accordingly made use of the keen one of ridicule. With this view he has here introduced, with admirable humour, a parcel of clowns, imitating all the solemnities of the tourney. Here we have the regular challenge—the appointed day—the lady for the prize—the formal preparations—the display of armour—the scucheons and devices—the oaths taken on entering the lists—the variousaccidents of the encounter—the victor leading off the prize—and the magnificent feasting—with all the other solemn fopperies that usually attended the pompous turnament. And how acutely the sharpness of the author's humour must have been felt in those days, we may learn from what we can perceive of its keenness now, when time has so much blunted the edge of his ridicule.

TheTurnament of Tottenhamwas first printed from an ancient MS. in 1631, 4to., by the Rev. William Bedwell, rector of Tottenham, who was one of the translators of the Bible. He tells us, it was written by Gilbert Pilkington, thought to have been some time parson of the same parish, and author of another piece, intitled,Passio Domini Jesu Christi. Bedwell, who was eminently skilled in the Oriental and other languages, appears to have been but little conversant with the ancient writers in his own, and he so little entered into the spirit of the poem he was publishing, that he contends for its being a serious narrative of a real event, and thinks it must have been written before the time of Edward III. because turnaments were prohibited in that reign. "I do verily beleeve," says he, "that this turnament was acted before this proclamation of K. Edward. For how durst any to attempt to do that, although in sport, which was so straightly forbidden, both by the civill and ecclesiasticall power? For although they fought not with lances, yet, as our authour sayth, 'It was no childrens game.' And what would have become of him, thinke you, which should have slayne another in this manner of jeasting? Would he not, trow you, have beenhang'd for it in earnest? yea, and have beneburied like a dogge?" It is, however, well known that turnaments were in use down to the reign of Elizabeth.

In the first editions of this work, Bedwell's copy was reprinted here, with some few conjectural emendations; but as Bedwell seemed to have reduced the orthography at least, if not the phraseology, to the standard of his own time, it was with great pleasure that the Editor was informed of an ancient MS. copy preserved in the Museum (Harl. MSS. 5396), which appeared to have been transcribed in the reign of K. Hen. VI. about 1456. This obliging information the Editor owed to the friendship of Tho. Tyrwhitt, Esq., and he has chiefly followed that more authentic transcript, improved however by some readings from Bedwell's book.

[A writer in theGentleman's Magazine(July, 1794, p. 613), calls attention to the fact that this ballad is "a burlesque upon the feudal custom of marrying an heiress to the knight who should vanquish all his opponents at a solemn assembly holden for the purpose."Bedwell's MS. is now in the Cambridge public library (Ff. 5, 48), and Mr. Thomas Wright, who has printed it in a miniaturevolume, believes it to have been written as early as the reign of Edward II.Bedwell was chaplain to Sir Henry Wotton in his embassy to Venice, where he is said to have assisted the celebrated Father Paul in the composition of hisHistory of the Council of Trent. The following is a copy of the inscription on Bedwell's monument in the chancel of Tottenham church:—"Here lyes interred in this chancel Mr. William Bedwell, sometime vicar of this church and one of King James's translators of the Bible, and for the Easterne tongues as learned a man as most lived in these moderne times. Aged 70. Dyed May the 5th, 1632."]

Bedwell's MS. is now in the Cambridge public library (Ff. 5, 48), and Mr. Thomas Wright, who has printed it in a miniaturevolume, believes it to have been written as early as the reign of Edward II.

Bedwell was chaplain to Sir Henry Wotton in his embassy to Venice, where he is said to have assisted the celebrated Father Paul in the composition of hisHistory of the Council of Trent. The following is a copy of the inscription on Bedwell's monument in the chancel of Tottenham church:—"Here lyes interred in this chancel Mr. William Bedwell, sometime vicar of this church and one of King James's translators of the Bible, and for the Easterne tongues as learned a man as most lived in these moderne times. Aged 70. Dyed May the 5th, 1632."]

Of all thes kene conquerours to carpe[101]it were kynde;Of fele feyytyng[102]folk ferly[103]we fynde;The Turnament of Totenham have we in mynde;It were harme sych hardynes were holden byhynde,In story as we rede5Of Hawkyn, of Herry,Of Tomkyn, of Terry,Of them that were dughty[104]And stalworth[105]in dede.It befel in Totenham on a dere[106]day,10Ther was mad a shurtyng[107]be the hy-way:Theder com al the men of the contray,Of Hyssylton,[108]of Hy-gate, and of Hakenay,And all the swete swynkers.[109]Ther hopped Hawkyn,15Ther daunsed Dawkyn,Ther trumped Tomkyn,And all were trewe drynkers.Tyl the day was gon and evyn-song past,That thay schuld reckyn ther scot and ther counts cast;[110]20Perkyn the potter into the press past,And sayd Randol the refe,[111]a doyter[112]thou hast,Tyb the dere:Therfor faine wyt wold I,[113]Whych of all thys bachelery25Were best worthyeTo wed hur to hys fere.[114]Upstyrt thos gadelyngys[115]wyth ther lang staves,And sayd, Randol the refe, lo! thys lad raves;Boldely amang us thy doyter he craves;30We er rycher men then he, and mor gode havesOf cattell and corn;Then sayd Perkyn, To Tybbe I have hyyt[116]That I schal be alway redy in my ryyt,If that it schuld be thys day sevenyyt,35Or elles yet to morn.[117]Then sayd Randolfe the refe, Ever be he waryd,[118]That about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryd:I wold not my doyter, that scho[119]were miscaryd,But at hur most worschip I wold scho were maryd,40Therfor a Turnament schal begynneThys day sevenyyt,—Wyth a flayl for to fyyt:And 'he,' that is most of myghtSchal brouke hur wyth wynne.[120]45Whoso berys[121]hym best in the turnament,Hym schal be granted the gre[122]be the comon assent,For to wynne my doyter wyth 'dughtynesse' of dent,[123][124]And 'coppell' my brode-henne 'that' was broyt out of Kent:[125]And my dunnyd kowe50For no spens[126]wyl I spare,For no cattell wyl I care,He schal have my gray mare,And my spottyd sowe.Ther was many 'a' bold lad ther bodyes to bede:[127]55Than thay toke thayr leve, and homward they yede;[128]And all the weke afterward graythed ther wede,[129][130]Tyll it come to the day, that thay suld do ther dede.They armed ham[131]in matts;Thay set on ther nollys,[132]60For to kepe ther pollys,[133]Gode blake bollys,[134]For batryng of bats.[135]Thay sowed tham in schepeskynnes, for thay schuld not brest:[136]Ilk-on[137]toke a blak hat, insted of a crest:65'A basket or a panyer before on ther brest,'[138]And a flayle in ther hande; for to fyght prest,[139]Furth gon thay fare:[140]Ther was kyd[141]mekyl fors,[142]Who schuld best fend hys cors:[143]70He that had no gode hors,He gat hym a mare.[144]Sych another gadryng[145]have I not sene oft,When all the gret company com rydand to the croft:[146]Tyb on a gray mare was set up on loft75On a sek ful of fedyrs,[147]for scho schuld syt soft,[148]And led 'till the gap.'[149]For cryeng of the menForther wold not Tyb then,Tyl scho had hur brode hen80Set in hur Lap.A gay gyrdyl Tyb had on, borowed for the nonys,[150]And a garland on hur hed ful of rounde bonys,[151][152]And a broche on hur brest ful of 'sapphyre' stonys,[153]Wyth the holy-rode tokenyng,[154]was wrotyn[155]for the nonys;[156]85For no 'spendings' thay had spared.[157]When joly Gyb saw hur thare,He gyrd so hys gray mare,'That scho lete a fowkin'[158]fare[159]At the rereward.90I wow to God, quoth Herry, I schal not lefe behynde,May I mete wyth Bernard on Bayard the blynde,Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde,For whatsoever that he be, before me I fynde,I wot I schall hym greve.95Wele sayd, quoth Hawkyn.And I wow, quoth Dawkyn,May I mete wyth Tomkyn,Hys flayle I schal hym reve.[160]I make a vow, quoth Hud, Tyb, son schal thou se,100Whych of all thys bachelery 'granted' is the gre:[161]I schal scomfet[162]thaym all, for the love of the;In what place so I come thay schal have dout[163]of me,Myn armes ar so clere:I bere a reddyl,[164]and a rake,105Poudred wyth a brenand drake,[165]And three cantells[166]of a cakeIn ycha[167]cornere.I vow to God, quoth Hawkyn, yf 'I' have the gowt,[168][169]Al that I fynde in the felde 'thrustand' here aboute,[170]110Have I twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route,In ycha stede ther thay[171]me se, of me thay schal have doute,When I begyn to play.I make avowe that I ne schall,But yf Tybbe wyl me call,[172]115Or I be thryes don fall,[173]Ryyt onys[174]com away.Then sayd Terry, and swore be hys crede;Saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede,[175]For when thay fyyt fastest and most ar in drede,120I schall take Tyb by the hand, and hur away lede:I am armed at the full;In myn armys I bere weleA doy trogh[176]and a pele,[177]A sadyll wythout a panell,125Wyth a fles of woll.[178]I make a vow, quoth Dudman, and swor be the stra,Whyls me ys left my 'mare,' thou gets hurr not swa;[179][180]For scho ys wele schapen, and liyt as the rae,[181]Ther is no capul[182]in thys myle befor hur schal ga;[183]130Sche wul ne noyt begyle:Sche wyl me bere, I dar say,On a lang somerys day,Fro Hyssylton to Hakenay,Noyt other half myle.135I make a vow, quoth Perkyn, thow speks of cold rost,I schal wyrch 'wyselyer'[184]withouten any bost:[185]Five of the best capulys, that ar in thys ost,I wot I schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost,And here I grant thaym Tybbe.140Wele boyes here ys he,That wyl fyyt, and not fle,For I am in my jolyte,Wyth so forth, Gybbe.When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie,145Wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre:[186]Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre;Thay were dyyt[187]in aray, as thaymselfes wold be:Thayr baners were ful bryytOf an old rotten fell;[188]150The cheveron of a plow-mell;[189][190]And the schadow of a bell,Poudred wyth the mone lyyt.[191]I wot yt 'was' no chylder[192]game, whan thay togedyr met,[193]When icha freke[194]in the feld on hys feloy[195]bet,155And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let,And foght ferly[196]fast, tyll ther horses swet,And few wordys spoken.Ther were flayles al to slatred,[197]Ther were scheldys al to flatred,160Bollys and dysches al to schatred,And many hedys brokynThere was clynkyng of cart-sadellys, & clatteryng of cannes;[198]Of fele frekys[199]in the feld brokyn were their fannes;Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the braynpannes,[200]165And yll were thay besene,[201]or thay went thanns,Wyth swyppyng of swepyls:[202]Thay were so wery for-foght,[203]Thay myyt not fyyt mare oloft,[204]But creped about in the 'croft,'[205]170As thay were croked crepyls.Perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute;[206]Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte:An hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute!That I may lyytly come of my noye[207]oute,175For no cost wyl I spare.He styrt up as a snayle,And hent[208]a capul be the tayle,And 'reft' Dawkin hys flayle,[209]And wan there a mare.180Perkyn wan five, and Hud wan twa:Glad and blythe thay ware, that they had done sa;Thay wold have tham to Tyb, and present hur with tha:[210]The Capulls were so wery, that thay myyt not ga,But styl gon thay stond.[211]185Alas! quoth Hudde, my joye I lese;[212]Mee had lever then a ston of chese,That dere Tyb had al these,And wyst it were my sond.[213][214]Perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrang,[215]190Among thos wery boyes he wrest and he wrang;He threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast tham amang,When he saw Tyrry away wyth Tyb fang,[216]And after hym ran;Off his horse he hym drogh,[217]195And gaf hym of hys flayl inogh:We te he! quoth Tyb, and lugh,Ye er a dughty man.'Thus' thay tugged, and rugged, tyl yt was nere nyyt:[218]All the wyves of Tottenham came to se that syyt200Wyth wyspes, and kexis,[219]and ryschys[220]there lyyt,To fetch hom ther husbandes, that were tham trouth plyyt;And sum bróyt gret harwos,[221]Ther husbandes hom to fetch,[222]Sum on dores, and sum on hech,[223]205Sum on hyrdyllys, and som on crech.[224]And sum on whele-barows.Thay gaderyd Perkyn about, 'on' everych syde,[225]And grant hym ther 'the gre,' the more was hys pryde:[226]Tyb and he, wyth gret 'mirth,' homward con thay ryde,[227]210And were al nyyt togedyr, tyl the morn tyde;And thay 'to church went:'[228]So wele hys nedys he has sped,That dere Tyb he 'hath' wed;[229]The prayse-folk,[230]that hur led,[231]215Were of the Turnament.To that ylk fest com many for the nones;Some come hyphalte,[232]and some trippand 'thither' on the stonys;[233]Sum a staf in hys hand, and sum two at onys;Of sum where the hedes broken, of some the schulder bonys:220With sorrow come thay thedyr.Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry,Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry.And so was all the bachelary,When thay met togedyr.225[234]At that fest thay wer servyd with a ryche aray,Every fyve & fyve had a cokenay;[235]And so thay sat in jolyte al the lung day;And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray:[236]Mekyl myrth was them among;230In every corner of the housWas melody delycyousFor to here precyusOf six menys song.[237]

It befel in Totenham on a dere[106]day,10Ther was mad a shurtyng[107]be the hy-way:Theder com al the men of the contray,Of Hyssylton,[108]of Hy-gate, and of Hakenay,And all the swete swynkers.[109]Ther hopped Hawkyn,15Ther daunsed Dawkyn,Ther trumped Tomkyn,And all were trewe drynkers.

Tyl the day was gon and evyn-song past,That thay schuld reckyn ther scot and ther counts cast;[110]20Perkyn the potter into the press past,And sayd Randol the refe,[111]a doyter[112]thou hast,Tyb the dere:Therfor faine wyt wold I,[113]Whych of all thys bachelery25Were best worthyeTo wed hur to hys fere.[114]

Upstyrt thos gadelyngys[115]wyth ther lang staves,And sayd, Randol the refe, lo! thys lad raves;Boldely amang us thy doyter he craves;30We er rycher men then he, and mor gode havesOf cattell and corn;Then sayd Perkyn, To Tybbe I have hyyt[116]That I schal be alway redy in my ryyt,If that it schuld be thys day sevenyyt,35Or elles yet to morn.[117]

Then sayd Randolfe the refe, Ever be he waryd,[118]That about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryd:I wold not my doyter, that scho[119]were miscaryd,But at hur most worschip I wold scho were maryd,40Therfor a Turnament schal begynneThys day sevenyyt,—Wyth a flayl for to fyyt:And 'he,' that is most of myghtSchal brouke hur wyth wynne.[120]45

Whoso berys[121]hym best in the turnament,Hym schal be granted the gre[122]be the comon assent,For to wynne my doyter wyth 'dughtynesse' of dent,[123][124]And 'coppell' my brode-henne 'that' was broyt out of Kent:[125]And my dunnyd kowe50For no spens[126]wyl I spare,For no cattell wyl I care,He schal have my gray mare,And my spottyd sowe.

Ther was many 'a' bold lad ther bodyes to bede:[127]55Than thay toke thayr leve, and homward they yede;[128]And all the weke afterward graythed ther wede,[129][130]Tyll it come to the day, that thay suld do ther dede.They armed ham[131]in matts;Thay set on ther nollys,[132]60For to kepe ther pollys,[133]Gode blake bollys,[134]For batryng of bats.[135]

Thay sowed tham in schepeskynnes, for thay schuld not brest:[136]Ilk-on[137]toke a blak hat, insted of a crest:65'A basket or a panyer before on ther brest,'[138]And a flayle in ther hande; for to fyght prest,[139]Furth gon thay fare:[140]Ther was kyd[141]mekyl fors,[142]Who schuld best fend hys cors:[143]70He that had no gode hors,He gat hym a mare.[144]

Sych another gadryng[145]have I not sene oft,When all the gret company com rydand to the croft:[146]Tyb on a gray mare was set up on loft75On a sek ful of fedyrs,[147]for scho schuld syt soft,[148]And led 'till the gap.'[149]For cryeng of the menForther wold not Tyb then,Tyl scho had hur brode hen80Set in hur Lap.

A gay gyrdyl Tyb had on, borowed for the nonys,[150]And a garland on hur hed ful of rounde bonys,[151][152]And a broche on hur brest ful of 'sapphyre' stonys,[153]Wyth the holy-rode tokenyng,[154]was wrotyn[155]for the nonys;[156]85For no 'spendings' thay had spared.[157]When joly Gyb saw hur thare,He gyrd so hys gray mare,'That scho lete a fowkin'[158]fare[159]At the rereward.90

I wow to God, quoth Herry, I schal not lefe behynde,May I mete wyth Bernard on Bayard the blynde,Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde,For whatsoever that he be, before me I fynde,I wot I schall hym greve.95Wele sayd, quoth Hawkyn.And I wow, quoth Dawkyn,May I mete wyth Tomkyn,Hys flayle I schal hym reve.[160]

I make a vow, quoth Hud, Tyb, son schal thou se,100Whych of all thys bachelery 'granted' is the gre:[161]I schal scomfet[162]thaym all, for the love of the;In what place so I come thay schal have dout[163]of me,Myn armes ar so clere:I bere a reddyl,[164]and a rake,105Poudred wyth a brenand drake,[165]And three cantells[166]of a cakeIn ycha[167]cornere.

I vow to God, quoth Hawkyn, yf 'I' have the gowt,[168][169]Al that I fynde in the felde 'thrustand' here aboute,[170]110Have I twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route,In ycha stede ther thay[171]me se, of me thay schal have doute,When I begyn to play.I make avowe that I ne schall,But yf Tybbe wyl me call,[172]115Or I be thryes don fall,[173]Ryyt onys[174]com away.

Then sayd Terry, and swore be hys crede;Saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede,[175]For when thay fyyt fastest and most ar in drede,120I schall take Tyb by the hand, and hur away lede:I am armed at the full;In myn armys I bere weleA doy trogh[176]and a pele,[177]A sadyll wythout a panell,125Wyth a fles of woll.[178]

I make a vow, quoth Dudman, and swor be the stra,Whyls me ys left my 'mare,' thou gets hurr not swa;[179][180]For scho ys wele schapen, and liyt as the rae,[181]Ther is no capul[182]in thys myle befor hur schal ga;[183]130Sche wul ne noyt begyle:Sche wyl me bere, I dar say,On a lang somerys day,Fro Hyssylton to Hakenay,Noyt other half myle.135

I make a vow, quoth Perkyn, thow speks of cold rost,I schal wyrch 'wyselyer'[184]withouten any bost:[185]Five of the best capulys, that ar in thys ost,I wot I schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost,And here I grant thaym Tybbe.140Wele boyes here ys he,That wyl fyyt, and not fle,For I am in my jolyte,Wyth so forth, Gybbe.

When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie,145Wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre:[186]Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre;Thay were dyyt[187]in aray, as thaymselfes wold be:Thayr baners were ful bryytOf an old rotten fell;[188]150The cheveron of a plow-mell;[189][190]And the schadow of a bell,Poudred wyth the mone lyyt.[191]

I wot yt 'was' no chylder[192]game, whan thay togedyr met,[193]When icha freke[194]in the feld on hys feloy[195]bet,155And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let,And foght ferly[196]fast, tyll ther horses swet,And few wordys spoken.Ther were flayles al to slatred,[197]Ther were scheldys al to flatred,160Bollys and dysches al to schatred,And many hedys brokyn

There was clynkyng of cart-sadellys, & clatteryng of cannes;[198]Of fele frekys[199]in the feld brokyn were their fannes;Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the braynpannes,[200]165And yll were thay besene,[201]or thay went thanns,Wyth swyppyng of swepyls:[202]Thay were so wery for-foght,[203]Thay myyt not fyyt mare oloft,[204]But creped about in the 'croft,'[205]170As thay were croked crepyls.

Perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute;[206]Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte:An hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute!That I may lyytly come of my noye[207]oute,175For no cost wyl I spare.He styrt up as a snayle,And hent[208]a capul be the tayle,And 'reft' Dawkin hys flayle,[209]And wan there a mare.180

Perkyn wan five, and Hud wan twa:Glad and blythe thay ware, that they had done sa;Thay wold have tham to Tyb, and present hur with tha:[210]The Capulls were so wery, that thay myyt not ga,But styl gon thay stond.[211]185Alas! quoth Hudde, my joye I lese;[212]Mee had lever then a ston of chese,That dere Tyb had al these,And wyst it were my sond.[213][214]

Perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrang,[215]190Among thos wery boyes he wrest and he wrang;He threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast tham amang,When he saw Tyrry away wyth Tyb fang,[216]And after hym ran;Off his horse he hym drogh,[217]195And gaf hym of hys flayl inogh:We te he! quoth Tyb, and lugh,Ye er a dughty man.

'Thus' thay tugged, and rugged, tyl yt was nere nyyt:[218]All the wyves of Tottenham came to se that syyt200Wyth wyspes, and kexis,[219]and ryschys[220]there lyyt,To fetch hom ther husbandes, that were tham trouth plyyt;And sum bróyt gret harwos,[221]Ther husbandes hom to fetch,[222]Sum on dores, and sum on hech,[223]205Sum on hyrdyllys, and som on crech.[224]And sum on whele-barows.

Thay gaderyd Perkyn about, 'on' everych syde,[225]And grant hym ther 'the gre,' the more was hys pryde:[226]Tyb and he, wyth gret 'mirth,' homward con thay ryde,[227]210And were al nyyt togedyr, tyl the morn tyde;And thay 'to church went:'[228]So wele hys nedys he has sped,That dere Tyb he 'hath' wed;[229]The prayse-folk,[230]that hur led,[231]215Were of the Turnament.

To that ylk fest com many for the nones;Some come hyphalte,[232]and some trippand 'thither' on the stonys;[233]Sum a staf in hys hand, and sum two at onys;Of sum where the hedes broken, of some the schulder bonys:220With sorrow come thay thedyr.Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry,Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry.And so was all the bachelary,When thay met togedyr.225

[234]At that fest thay wer servyd with a ryche aray,Every fyve & fyve had a cokenay;[235]And so thay sat in jolyte al the lung day;And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray:[236]Mekyl myrth was them among;230In every corner of the housWas melody delycyousFor to here precyusOf six menys song.[237]

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