CHAPTER XXVII

One I have marked, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the best:Hail to thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,Presiding spirit here to-day,Dost lead the revels of the May,And this is thy dominion.

One I have marked, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the best:

Hail to thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,

Presiding spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May,

And this is thy dominion.

w. wordsworth.

“DOLORÈS had a tame bird called ‘Piripe,’ you know,” said Clare one day to the children.

“She brought him up by hand, and when he died she was miserable. She’s got a long poem that a man called Skelton wrote long ago when English was spelt strangely. It is full of pretty phrases, and it has got a long list of birds’ names; if you’ll listen, she’ll read it to you, she says.”

Clare spoke eagerly. But she had no need tocall the children twice. They gather round any one willingly enough who will read to them.

Dolorès looked very small and sad as she sat on a low stool, about to commence reading. There is something you will see, in the manner her little bodice is crossed, that is curiously at one with that lift in her eyebrow.

Reynolds.DOLORÈS.

DOLORÈS.

“My bird was a green finch,” she said, “and he had the crossest little eye I’ve ever seen; it was like a sour bead, full of greediness. But all the same I loved him, and I shall never have such another. I shall never, never, have such a dear again. This man Skelton who wrote this poem must have known some little girl who lost a bird she loved, for listen to what he writes about it. It is called

The Boke of Phyllyp Sparowe,

and these are only some of the lines:—

“‘When I remember againHow my Phylyp was slainNever half the payneWas between you twain,Pyramus and Thisbe,As then befell to me.I wept and I wayled,The tears down hayled,But nothing it availedTo call Philyp again,Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain.Gib, I say, our catWorried her on thatWhich I loved best.It cannot be expressedBy sorrowful heaviness.It was so prety a foolIt wold sit on a stool;It had a velvet cap,And would sit upon my lap,And seek after small wormesAnd sometymes white bread crommes.Sometimes he wold gaspWhen he saw a wasp,A fly, or a gnat,He would fly at that;And pretily he wold pantWhen he saw an ant;Lord, how he wold pryAfter the butterfly!Lord, how he wold hopAfter the gressop!And when I sayd, Phyp, Phyp!Then he wold leap and skypAnd take me by the lyp.Alas! it will me sloThat Phyllyp is gone me fro!For it wold come and goAnd fly so to and fro,And on me it wold leapWhen I was asleep,And his fethers shake,Wherewith he wold makeMe often for to wake.He did nothing perdieBut sit upon my knee.Phyllyp had leave to goTo pike my lytell toe;Phyllip might be boldAnd do what he wold.Phyllyp wold seek and takeAll the fleas blakeThat he could there espyWith his wanton eye.That vengeance I aske and cryBy way of exclamationOn the whole nationOf cattes, wyld and tame.God send them sorrowe and shame!That cat speciallyThat slew so cruellyMy lytell prety sparoweThat I brought up at Carowe.When I remember it,How pretily it wold sitMany times and oftOn my finger aloft!His bill between my lippes—It was my prety Phyppes!He was wont to repayreAnd go in at my spayre,And creep in at my goreOf my gown before,Flyckering with his wings.Alas! my heart it stingsRemembrynge prety things!Of fortune this the chanceStandeth on varianceOft time after pleasaunce,Trouble and grievaunceNo man can be sureAll way to have pleasure.As well perceive ye mayHow my desport and playFrom me was taken awayBy Gyb, our cat, savage,That in a furious rageCaught Phyllyp by the headAnd slew him there, starke dead.Kyrie eleison,Christe, eleison,Kyrie eleison,For Phyllyp Sparowe’s souleSet in our bead rollLet us now whisperA Pater noster.All manner of birdes in your kindSo none be left behind,Some to sing and some to say,Some to weep and some to prayEvery birde in his laye.The goldfink, the wagtayle,The jangling pie to chatterOf this dolorous matter;And robyn redbreastHe shall be the priestThe requiem mass to singSoftly warbelynge.With help of the red sparrowAnd the chattringe swallowThis hearse for to hallow.The larke, with his long toe,The spynk and martinet, alsoThe shoveler with his brode bek;The dotterell, that folyshe pekThe partryche, the quayle,The plover, with us to wayle,The lusty chaunting nightingale;The popinjay to tell her taleThat looketh oft in the glasse,Shall read the gospel at Masse.The mavis with her whystleShall read the epistle,But with a large and a longeTo keep just playne songeOur chanters shall be the cuckoo,The culver, the stockdoo,With puwyt, the lapwyng,The versicles shall syng.The bittern with his bumpe,The crane with his trumpe,The swan of Menander,The gose and the gander,The duck and the drake,Shall watch at this wake.The owle, that is so fowle,Must help us to howle;The barnacle, the bussarde,With the wild mallarde;The puffin and tealMoney they shall dele;The seamewe, the tytmose,The wodcocke, with the longe nose;The throstyll, with her warblyng,The starling, with her brablyng;The roke and the ospreyThat putteth fysshe to the fraye;And the dainty curlew,With the turtyll most trew.And it were a JeweIt wold make one reweTo see my sorrow newe!These villainous false cattesWere made for myse and rattes,And not for birdes smale.Alas! my face waxeth paleTelling this piteous tale.Alas! I say agayne,Deth hath departed us twayne;The false cat hath thee slayne.Farewell, Phyllyp, adieu,Our Lord thy soule reskew;Farewell, without restore,Farewell for evermore.’”

“‘When I remember again

How my Phylyp was slain

Never half the payne

Was between you twain,

Pyramus and Thisbe,

As then befell to me.

I wept and I wayled,

The tears down hayled,

But nothing it availed

To call Philyp again,

Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain.

Gib, I say, our cat

Worried her on that

Which I loved best.

It cannot be expressed

By sorrowful heaviness.

It was so prety a foolIt wold sit on a stool;It had a velvet cap,And would sit upon my lap,And seek after small wormesAnd sometymes white bread crommes.Sometimes he wold gaspWhen he saw a wasp,A fly, or a gnat,He would fly at that;And pretily he wold pantWhen he saw an ant;Lord, how he wold pryAfter the butterfly!Lord, how he wold hopAfter the gressop!And when I sayd, Phyp, Phyp!Then he wold leap and skypAnd take me by the lyp.

It was so prety a fool

It wold sit on a stool;

It had a velvet cap,

And would sit upon my lap,

And seek after small wormes

And sometymes white bread crommes.

Sometimes he wold gasp

When he saw a wasp,

A fly, or a gnat,

He would fly at that;

And pretily he wold pant

When he saw an ant;

Lord, how he wold pry

After the butterfly!

Lord, how he wold hop

After the gressop!

And when I sayd, Phyp, Phyp!

Then he wold leap and skyp

And take me by the lyp.

Alas! it will me sloThat Phyllyp is gone me fro!For it wold come and goAnd fly so to and fro,And on me it wold leapWhen I was asleep,And his fethers shake,Wherewith he wold makeMe often for to wake.

Alas! it will me slo

That Phyllyp is gone me fro!

For it wold come and go

And fly so to and fro,

And on me it wold leap

When I was asleep,

And his fethers shake,

Wherewith he wold make

Me often for to wake.

He did nothing perdieBut sit upon my knee.Phyllyp had leave to goTo pike my lytell toe;Phyllip might be boldAnd do what he wold.Phyllyp wold seek and takeAll the fleas blakeThat he could there espyWith his wanton eye.

He did nothing perdie

But sit upon my knee.

Phyllyp had leave to go

To pike my lytell toe;

Phyllip might be bold

And do what he wold.

Phyllyp wold seek and take

All the fleas blake

That he could there espy

With his wanton eye.

That vengeance I aske and cryBy way of exclamationOn the whole nationOf cattes, wyld and tame.God send them sorrowe and shame!That cat speciallyThat slew so cruellyMy lytell prety sparoweThat I brought up at Carowe.

That vengeance I aske and cry

By way of exclamation

On the whole nation

Of cattes, wyld and tame.

God send them sorrowe and shame!

That cat specially

That slew so cruelly

My lytell prety sparowe

That I brought up at Carowe.

When I remember it,How pretily it wold sitMany times and oftOn my finger aloft!His bill between my lippes—It was my prety Phyppes!He was wont to repayreAnd go in at my spayre,And creep in at my goreOf my gown before,Flyckering with his wings.Alas! my heart it stingsRemembrynge prety things!

When I remember it,

How pretily it wold sit

Many times and oft

On my finger aloft!

His bill between my lippes—

It was my prety Phyppes!

He was wont to repayre

And go in at my spayre,

And creep in at my gore

Of my gown before,

Flyckering with his wings.

Alas! my heart it stings

Remembrynge prety things!

Of fortune this the chanceStandeth on varianceOft time after pleasaunce,Trouble and grievaunceNo man can be sureAll way to have pleasure.As well perceive ye mayHow my desport and playFrom me was taken awayBy Gyb, our cat, savage,That in a furious rageCaught Phyllyp by the headAnd slew him there, starke dead.Kyrie eleison,Christe, eleison,Kyrie eleison,

Of fortune this the chance

Standeth on variance

Oft time after pleasaunce,

Trouble and grievaunce

No man can be sure

All way to have pleasure.

As well perceive ye may

How my desport and play

From me was taken away

By Gyb, our cat, savage,

That in a furious rage

Caught Phyllyp by the head

And slew him there, starke dead.

Kyrie eleison,

Christe, eleison,

Kyrie eleison,

For Phyllyp Sparowe’s souleSet in our bead rollLet us now whisperA Pater noster.

For Phyllyp Sparowe’s soule

Set in our bead roll

Let us now whisper

A Pater noster.

All manner of birdes in your kindSo none be left behind,Some to sing and some to say,Some to weep and some to prayEvery birde in his laye.The goldfink, the wagtayle,The jangling pie to chatterOf this dolorous matter;And robyn redbreastHe shall be the priestThe requiem mass to singSoftly warbelynge.With help of the red sparrowAnd the chattringe swallowThis hearse for to hallow.

All manner of birdes in your kind

So none be left behind,

Some to sing and some to say,

Some to weep and some to pray

Every birde in his laye.

The goldfink, the wagtayle,

The jangling pie to chatter

Of this dolorous matter;

And robyn redbreast

He shall be the priest

The requiem mass to sing

Softly warbelynge.

With help of the red sparrow

And the chattringe swallow

This hearse for to hallow.

The larke, with his long toe,The spynk and martinet, alsoThe shoveler with his brode bek;The dotterell, that folyshe pekThe partryche, the quayle,The plover, with us to wayle,The lusty chaunting nightingale;The popinjay to tell her tale

The larke, with his long toe,

The spynk and martinet, also

The shoveler with his brode bek;

The dotterell, that folyshe pek

The partryche, the quayle,

The plover, with us to wayle,

The lusty chaunting nightingale;

The popinjay to tell her tale

That looketh oft in the glasse,Shall read the gospel at Masse.The mavis with her whystleShall read the epistle,But with a large and a longeTo keep just playne songeOur chanters shall be the cuckoo,The culver, the stockdoo,With puwyt, the lapwyng,The versicles shall syng.The bittern with his bumpe,The crane with his trumpe,The swan of Menander,The gose and the gander,The duck and the drake,Shall watch at this wake.The owle, that is so fowle,Must help us to howle;The barnacle, the bussarde,With the wild mallarde;The puffin and tealMoney they shall dele;The seamewe, the tytmose,The wodcocke, with the longe nose;The throstyll, with her warblyng,The starling, with her brablyng;The roke and the ospreyThat putteth fysshe to the fraye;And the dainty curlew,With the turtyll most trew.

That looketh oft in the glasse,

Shall read the gospel at Masse.

The mavis with her whystle

Shall read the epistle,

But with a large and a longe

To keep just playne songe

Our chanters shall be the cuckoo,

The culver, the stockdoo,

With puwyt, the lapwyng,

The versicles shall syng.

The bittern with his bumpe,

The crane with his trumpe,

The swan of Menander,

The gose and the gander,

The duck and the drake,

Shall watch at this wake.

The owle, that is so fowle,

Must help us to howle;

The barnacle, the bussarde,

With the wild mallarde;

The puffin and teal

Money they shall dele;

The seamewe, the tytmose,

The wodcocke, with the longe nose;

The throstyll, with her warblyng,

The starling, with her brablyng;

The roke and the osprey

That putteth fysshe to the fraye;

And the dainty curlew,

With the turtyll most trew.

And it were a JeweIt wold make one reweTo see my sorrow newe!These villainous false cattesWere made for myse and rattes,And not for birdes smale.Alas! my face waxeth paleTelling this piteous tale.Alas! I say agayne,Deth hath departed us twayne;The false cat hath thee slayne.

And it were a Jewe

It wold make one rewe

To see my sorrow newe!

These villainous false cattes

Were made for myse and rattes,

And not for birdes smale.

Alas! my face waxeth pale

Telling this piteous tale.

Alas! I say agayne,

Deth hath departed us twayne;

The false cat hath thee slayne.

Farewell, Phyllyp, adieu,Our Lord thy soule reskew;Farewell, without restore,Farewell for evermore.’”

Farewell, Phyllyp, adieu,

Our Lord thy soule reskew;

Farewell, without restore,

Farewell for evermore.’”

John Skelton, born 1460.

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