Chapter IX: Appendix (7)

“Sir Ralf Devel,” says the Comte de Bologne,--“we will not leave
alive either canon or monk,--let us go forth anon right without
any excuse,--nor no man alive (?).--We shall flay the Conyng
(rabbit), and cause his loins to be roasted;--the fame of him
shall spring as far as Cologne,--so shall it to Acre and into
Saxony,--and make them full pale.”

Seven counts and forty barons in number,--fifteen hundred knights
proud and very bold,--sixty thousand squires what with young and
old,--to take the Flemings.--The Flemings boldly came against
them;--these proud French comtes, their knights, and their
men--they killed and slew over the hills and the plains,--all for
their King’s sake.

These French came to Flanders as light as the hare;--before it
was midnight there fell upon them care;--they were caught in the
net as a bird is in the snare,--with horse and with steed.--The
Flemings dab them on the bare head;--they will take for them
neither ransom nor pay;--they dod off their heads, happen what
may,--and thereto have they need.

Then saith the Comte d’Artois, “I yield me to thee,--Peter Conyng
by name, if thou art gentle and free,--that I may suffer no
shame nor disgrace,--and that I may not be slain.”--Then swore a
butcher, “By my loyalty!--thou shalt never more see the King of
France,--nor be in prison in the town of Bruges,--thou wouldest
consume bread.”

There they were heaped into the pit-full,--these counts and
barons and all their knights;--their ladies may wait for them
in bower and in hall--very long.--In their place must their
king call other knights,--and take other steeds out of their
stables:--there they have drunk bitterer than gall,--upon the dry
land.

When the King of France heard these tidings,--he cast down his
head, his hands he began to wring.--Throughout all France the
news began to spread;--woe was to them all!--Much was the sorrow
and the weeping--that was in all France among old and young;--The
greatest part of the land began to sing,--“Alas! and welaway!”

Away, thou young pope! what will be thy counsel?--Thou hast lost
thy cardinals at thy greatest need;--thou wilt never recover them
for any kind of reward,--for truth I tell thee.--Go forth to Rome
to atone for thy misdeeds;--pray to good saints that they let
thee speed better:--unless thou workest more wisely, thou losest
land and people,--the crown fell well to the. (?)

Alas! thou simple France, it may appear a shame for thee,--that
a few fullers make thee so tame;--sixty thousand in a day they
made trip quickly, (?)--with count and knight.--Thereof have
the Flemings very good game,--and swear by St. Omer and eke by
St. James,--if they come there any more, it will fall them to
shame,--with them to fight.

I tell you for truth, the battle thus begun,--between France and
Flanders, how they were foes;--for the French had put the Count
of Flanders in prison,--with treason faithlessly.--If the Prince
of Wales his life might have,--it will happen to the King of
France more bitter than soot;--unless he before-hand do make good
amends for it,--very sorely he shall rue it.

* * * * *

The following song seems to have been popular about the beginning of the fourteenth century. The wolf and the fox pourtray exactly the characters of the two classes of people who then oppressed and plundered the middle and lower classes.

A SONG ON THE TIMES.

[MS. Harl. No. 913, fol. 44, v^o. written about A.D. 1308.]

Whose thenchith up this carful lif,
Niȝte and dai that we beth inne,
So moch we seeth of sorow and strif,
And lite ther is of worldis winne,
Hate and wreth ther is wel rive,
And trew love is ful thinne:
Men that beth in heiiȝist live
Mest i-charged beth with sinne.

Fals and lither is this lond,
As al dai we mai i-se:
Therin is bothe hate and onde,--
Ic wene that ever so wol be.
Coveitise hath the law an honde,
That the trewthe he ne mai i-se:
Nou is maister pride and onde;--
Alas! Loverde, whi suffrith he?

Wold holi cherch pilt is miȝte,
And law of lond pilt him to;
Than scholde coveitise and un-riȝte
Ute of lond ben y-do.
Holi cherch schold hold is riȝt
For no eie no for no love;
That hi ne schold schow har miȝt
For lordingen boste that beth above.

To entredite and amonsi
Al thai, whate hi evir be,
That lafful men doth robbi,
Whate in lond what in see;
And thos hoblurs, namelich,
That husbond benimeth eri of grund;
Men ne schold ham biri in non chirch,
Bot cast ham ute as a hund.

Thos kingis ministris beth i-schend,
To riȝt and law that ssold tak hede,
And al the lond for t’ amend,
Of thos thevis hi taketh mede.
Be the lafful man to deth i-broȝt,
And his catel awei y-nom;
Of his deth ne tellith hi noȝt,
Bot of har prei hi hab som.

Hab hi the silver, and the mede,
And the catel under-fo,
Of feloni hi ne taketh hede,
Al thilk trepas is a-go.
Of thos a vorbisen ic herd telle;
The Lion is king of all beeste,
And--herknith al to mi spelle--
In his lond he did an heste.

The Lyon lete cri, as hit was do,
For he hird lome to telle;
And eke him was i-told also
That the wolf didde noȝte welle.
And the fox, that lither grome,
With the wolf, i-wreiid was;
To-for har lord hi schold come,
To amend har trepas.

And so men didde that seli asse,
That trepasid noȝt, no did no gilte,
With ham bothe i-wreiid was,
And in the ditement was i-pilt.
The voxe hird amang al menne,
And told the wolf with the brode crune;
That on him send gees and henne,
That other geet and motune.

The seli aasse wend was saf,
For he ne eete noȝt bote grasse;
None ȝiftes he ne ȝaf,
No wend that no harm nasse.
Tho hi to har lord com to tune,
He told to ham law and skille;
Thos wikid bestis luid a-dune,
“Lord,” hi seiid, “what is thi wille?”

Tho spek the Lion hem to,
To the fox anone his wille,--
“Tel me, boi, what hast i-do?
Men beth aboute the to spille.”
Tho spek the fox first anone,
“Lord King, nou thi wille;
Thos men me wreiith of the tune,
And wold me gladlich for to spille.--

Gees no hen nad ic noȝt,
Sire, for soth ic the sigge,
Bot as ic ham dere boȝt,
And bere ham up myn owen rigge.”
”Godis grame most hi have,
That in the curte the so pilt!
Whan hit is so, ich vouchsave,
Ic forȝive the this gilte.”

The fals wolf stode behind;
He was doggid and ek felle:--
“Ic am i-com of grete kind,
Pes thou graunt me, that miȝt ful welle.”
“What hast i-do, bel amy,
That thou me so oxist pes?”
“Sire,” he seid, “I nel noȝt lie,
If thou me woldist hire a res.

For ic huntid up the doune,
To loke, Sire, mi biȝete;
Ther ic slow a motune,
Ȝe, Sir, and fewe gete.
Ic am i-wreiid, Sire, to the,
For that ilk gilt;--
Sire, ichul sker me,
I ne ȝef ham dint no pilt.”

“For soth I sigge the, bel ami,
Hi nadde no gode munde,
Thai that wreiid the to mei,
Thou ne diddist noȝt bot thi kund.--
Sei thou me, asse, wat hast i-do?
Me thenchith thou cannist no gode.
Whi nadistou, as other mo?
Thou come of lither stode.”

“Sertis, Sire, not ic noȝt;
Ic ete sage alnil gras,--
More harm ne did ic noȝt;
Therfor i-wreiid ic was.”
“Bel ami, that was mis-do,
That was aȝe thi kund,
For to ete such gras so:--
Hastilich ȝe him bind;

Al his bonis ȝe to-draw,
Loke that ȝe noȝt lete;
And that ic ȝive al for lawe,
That his fleis be al i-frette.”--
Also hit farith nou in lond,
Whose wol tak therto hede:
Of thai that habbith an hond,
Of thevis hi takith mede.

The lafful man ssal be i-bund,
And i-do in strang pine,
And i-hold in fast prisund,
Fort that he mak fine.
And the thef to skap so,
That doth ever aȝe the riȝt.
God take hede therto,
That is al ful of miȝt!

Thus farith al the world nuthe,
As we mai al i-se,
Both est and west, north and suthe;
God us help and the Trinité!
Trewth is i-faillid with fremid and sibbe,
And so wide as al this lond
Ne mai no man therin libbe,
What throȝ coveitise and throȝ onde.

Thoȝ lafful man wold hold is lif
In love, in charité, and in pes,
Sone me ssul compas is lif,
And that in a litil res.
Prude is maister and coveitise,
The thrid brother men clippith ond;
Niȝt and dai he fondith i-wisse
Lafful men, to hab har lond.

Whan erth hath erthe i-gette
And of erthe so hath i-nouȝ,
Whan he is therin i-stekke,
Wo is him that was in wouȝ!
What is the gode that man ssal hab,
Ute of this world whan he ssal go?
A sori wed,--whi ssal ic gab?--
For he broȝt him no mo.

Riȝt as he com, he ssal wend,
In wo, in pine, in poverté;--
Takith gode hede, men, to ȝure end,
For as I sigge, so hit wol be.
Y not wharof beth men so prute;
Of erthe and axen, felle and bone?
Be the soule enis ute,
A vilir caraing nis ther non.

The caraing is so lolich to see,
That under erth men mot it hide;
Bothe wif and child wol fram him fle,
Ther nis no frend that wol him bide.
What wol men for the sowle del?
Corne no mel, wel thou wost;
Bot wel seld at the mele
A rowȝ bare trenchur, other a crust.

The begger that the crust ssal hab,
Wel hokerlich he lokith theran:
Soth to sigge, and noȝt to gabbe,
Riȝt noȝt he is i-paiid a pan.
Than seiith the begger in is mode,
“The crust is bothe hard and tougth,
The wreche was hard that ow the gode,
Hard for hard is gode y-nowȝ.”

Moch misanter that for him bidde
Pater noster other crede;
Bot let him hab as he didde,
For of the ȝift nath he no mede.
Ic red up no man thou hab triste.
No uppon non other;
Ok del hit with ȝure owen fist,
Trist to soster no brother.

Anurith God and holi chirch,
And ȝiveth the pouir that habbith nede;
So Godis wille ȝe ssul wirche,
And joi of heven hab to mede.
To whoch joi us bring
Jhesus Crist heven king! AMEN.

TRANSLATION.--Whoso reflecteth upon this life which is full of
care,--night and day that we are in,--so much we see of sorrow
and strife,--and little there is of world’s joy.--Hate and wrath
there is very rife,--and true love is very rare:--men who are in
the highest station of life,--are most laden with sin.

False and wicked is this land,--as every day we may see:--in it
there is both hate and contention,--I think it will always be
so.--Covetousness hath the law in hand,--that he may not see the
truth:--Now pride is master, and contention;--Alas! Lord! why
suffereth he?

If holy church would exert its might,--and the law of the land
exert it too;--then should covetousness and injustice--out of the
land be driven.--Holy church should withhold its right--for no
fear nor for no love;--that they should not show their might--for
the boast of lordings that are above.

To interdict and admonish--all those, whatever they be,--who
lawful men do rob,--whether on the land or on the sea;--and those
hoblers in particular,--that take from the husbandman the tillage
of the ground;--men ought not to bury them in any church,--but to
throw them out like a dog.

Those king’s ministers are corrupted,--that should take heed to
right and law,--and all the land for to amend,--of these thieves
they take bribe.--If the man who acts lawfully is brought to
death,--and his property taken away;--of his death they make no
account,--but of their prey they have a share.

If they have the silver and the bribe--and the property
received,--they take no heed of felony,--every trespass is
allowed to pass.--Of these a parable I heard tell;--the Lion is
king of all beasts,--and (hearken all to my tale)--in his land he
made a command.

The Lion caused to be proclaimed, as it was done,--for he heard
frequently tell;--and eke it was told him also--that the wolf did
not well.--And the fox, that wicked fellow,--with the wolf was
accused;--before their lord they must come,--to make amends for
their trespass.

And so men did [accuse] the simple ass,--that trespassed not,
nor did any crime,--with them both he was accused,--and in
the indictment was put.--The fox heard [talk of it] among all
men,--and told the wolf with the broad crown;--the one sent to
him [the Lion] geese and hens,--the other kids and mutton.

The simple ass thought he was safe,--for he eat nothing but
grass;--no gifts he gave,--nor suspected that there was any
harm.--When they came in the presence of their Lord,--he counted
out to them law and reason;--these wicked beasts laid themselves
down [prostrate],--“Lord,” said they, “what is thy will?”

Then spake the Lion to them,--to the fox in the first place [he
declared] his will,--“Tell me, fellow, what hast thou done?--Men
are about thee to ruin.”--Then spake the fox first,--“Lord King,
now thy will;--these men accuse me of the town,--and would gladly
ruin me.

“Gees nor hen had I not,--Sire, for truth I tell thee,--but as
I bought them dearly,--and bore them upon my own back.”--“God’s
anger may they have,--that in the court so placed thee!--Since it
is so, I vouchsafe,--I forgive thee this guilt.”

The false wolf stood behind;--he was dogged and eke fell:--“I
am come of a great race,--grant thou me peace, who may full
well.”--“What hast thou done, fair friend,--that thou so askest
me peace?”--“Sire,” he said, “I will not lie,--if thou wouldst
hear me a little while.

“For I hunted up the downs,--to look, Sire, after my gain;--There
I slew a mutton,--yea, Sire, and a few kids.--I am accused, sire,
to thee,--for that same crime;--Sire, I shall clear myself,--I
gave them neither blow nor hurt.”

“For truth I tell thee, fair friend,--they had no good
mind,--they who accused thee to me,--thou didst nothing but thy
nature.--Tell thou me, ass, what hast thou done?--Methinks thou
art capable of no good.--Why haddest thou not [done] as others
more?--thou art come of wicked place.”

“Certes, Sire, I know not;--I eat sage and only grass,--more harm
did I not;--therefore was I accused.”--“Fair friend, that was
misdone,--that was against thy nature,--for to eat such grass
so:--hastily ye him bind;

“Draw ye all his bones to pieces,--look that ye do not fail;--and
that I give all for law,--that his flesh be all torn to
pieces.”--Thus it fares now in the land,--whoever will take heed
thereto:--of they that have in hand,--of thieves they take gifts.

The man who acts according to law shall be bound,--and condemned
to strong pain,--and held in fast prison,--until he pays a
fine.--And the thief to escape so,--that acts ever against the
right!--God take heed thereto,--who is all full of might!

Thus fares all the world now,--as we may all see,--both east
and west, north and south;--God and the Trinity help us!--Truth
is failed with stranger and relation,--and as wide as all this
land--no man can live therein,--what through covetousness and
through contention.

Though the man who acts according to law would hold his life--in
love, in charity, and in peace,--soon they will compass his
life,--and that in a little space of time.--Pride is master and
covetousness--the third brother is called contention;--night and
day they labour certainly--lawful men, to have their land.

When earth has obtained earth,--and thus of earth hast
enough,--when he is stuck therein,--woe to him that was in
wickedness!--What is the good that man shall have,--when he shall
go out of this world?--A sorry garment,--why shall I joke?--For
he brought him no more.

Just as he came, he shall go,--in woe, in pain, in poverty;--take
good heed, men, to your end,--for as I say, so it will be.--I
know not of what men are so proud;--of earth, and ashes, skin and
bone?--when the soul is once out,--there is no viler carcase.

The carcase is so loathsome to see,--that under earth men must it
hide;--both wife and child will from him fly,--there is no friend
that will stay with him.--What will men for the soul give?--corn
nor meal, well thou knowest;--but very seldom at their meal,--a
rough bare trencher, or a crust.

The beggar that the crust shall have,--right scornfully he looks
thereon:--truth to say, and not to joke,--right not a pan he
is paid.--Then saith the beggar in his mood,--“The crust is
both hard and tough,--the wretch was hard that possessed the
goods,--hard for hard is good enough.”

May he have much misadventure who for him saith--Pater-noster
or creed;--but let him have as he did,--for of the gift hath he
no reward.--I counsel thee have trust in no man,--nor upon no
other;--but share it with your own fist,--trust neither to sister
nor brother.

Honour God and holy church,--and give to the poor that have
need;--Thus ye shall work God’s will,--and have for reward the
joy of heaven.--To which joy us bring--Jesus Christ heaven’s
King. AMEN.

* * * * *

The scholastic philosophy flourished through the thirteenth century, the age of Albertus Magnus, of Grosteste, and of Roger Bacon; but, towards the close of that period, the importance of the schools and universities was rapidly declining. They had received a shock from the triumph of the monks over the scholars during the reign of St. Louis, which they could never recover. Political events, and the great change which was then operating in the whole political--we may perhaps say social--system, hastened their fall. The nice quibbles of the dialectitian, although they still had their weight in the cloister, began to be sneered at in the world without. The following song, which perhaps belongs to the beginning of the fourteenth century, is directed against the _artistæ_, or those who studied the seven arts, the scholastic _trivium_ and _quadrivium_.

SONG AGAINST THE SCHOLASTIC STUDIES.

[From MS. Cotton. Titus A. XX. fol. 66, v^o, written in reign of Edw. II.; and MS. Bodl. Oxford. Rawl. B. 214, fol. 168, v^o, of 15th cent.]

Meum est propositum gentis imperitæ
Artes frugi reddere melioris vitæ,
Et ad artes singulas procedatis rite:
Ad mea decepti juvenes documenta venite.
Adversatur legibus omne genus cleri,
Cujus status hodie pejor est quam heri;
Sua sacra presbiter quisque vult tueri.
Ingenium magni livor detraxit Homeri.
Quando contra boream nauta pandit velum,
Et asellus vincere cursu vult camelum,
Non formidat ponere manus os in cœlum:
Vulneror et clausum porto sub pectore telum.
Præferri bidentibus capra vult hirsuta,
Stulta non considerans unde sit induta;
Illi æqua vellera non sunt attributa:
Pennatis avibus quondam testudo locuta.
Cum sint nuda gloria logici contenti,
Sub egentis propere vivunt indumenti,
Verumtamen invident opulentæ genti.
Summa petit livor, perflant altissima venti.
Modus est invidiæ semper, ut ab imis
Sursum tendant, ultima contradicunt primis:
Invidere negligit infimo sublimis.
Invidus alterius rebus macescit opimis.
Si non cupis vivere pauper et mendicus,
Semper in laboribus sicut servus Stichus,
Igni digna subjici sine fructu ficus,
Dilige sic alios ut sis tibi carus amicus.
Expedit pauperibus abhærere legi;
Insudare nimium artibus elegi.
Ignoro propterea unde possum regi,
Carmina qui quondam studio florente peregi.
Nonne circa logicam si quis laborabit,
Spinas atque tribulos illi germinabit?
In sudore nimio panem manducabit;
Vix tamen hoc illi garula lingua dabit.
In arenam logicus frustra semen serit,
Nam metendi tempore fructus nullus erit;
Circa ficum sterilem labor omnis perit.
Arbor qualis erit, talia poma gerit.
Licet sis ad apicem artium provectus,
Fies junioribus in brevi despectus;
Dicunt de te, “senio desipit affectus.”
Æmula quid cessas finem properare senectus?
Veræ pestilentiæ cathedra tu sedes,
Qui Thebanas lectitas vel Trojanas cædes;
Affluunt divitiis legistarum sedes,
Et modo vadit equis qui solet ire pedes.
Propter artes vigilans est revera stultus;
Cur circa Georgicam pateris singultus?
Ager sic per steriles jaceat incultus,
Telluris si forte velis cognoscere cultus.
Propter leges merito labor est ferendus;
Ager reddens centuplum non est deferendus.
Est libellus pauperum pauperi legendus;
Hic tibi præcipue sit pura mente colendus.
Circa dialecticam tempus cur consumis,
Tu qui nullos redditus aliunde sumis?
Colat qui per patriam natus est e summis,
Dives agro, dives positis in fænore nummis.
Dives in fallaciis discat esse fortis;
Discat capram facere de persona sortis.
Artes nunquam deserat citra tempus mortis.
Contentus fama lateat Lucanus in hortis.
Si forte deliquerit artibus imbutus,
Ad legistas fugiet si vult esse tutus:
Quia se defendere nescit plus quam mutus,
Græcorum studia nimium diuque sequutus.
Atria nobilium video patere;
Cum legista venerit dissolvuntur ceræ.
Exclusus ad januam poteris sedere,
Ipse licet venias musis comitatus, Homere.
Logicus araneæ potest comparari,
Quæ subtiles didicit telas operari,
Quæ suis visceribus volunt consummari;
Est pretium musca, si forte queat laqueari.
Si fortuna logico favet in privigno,
Vultu namque logicum respicit benigno;
Si sit dives logicus hoc sub cœli signo;
Rara avis in terra nigroque simillima cigno.
Naturæ cognoscere si velis archana,
Stude circa physicam quæ dat membra sana:
Sat quicquid expostulat egestas humana,
Sat Galienus opes et sanctio Justiniana.

TRANSLATION.--It is my design to turn the arts of an unskilful
race to the fruit of a better life, and so proceed ye to each
of the arts in order: O youth who have been deceived, come to
my lessons.--Every class of the clergy is opposed to the laws,
of whom the condition to-day is worse than it was yesterday;
every priest will hold his own rites: envy detracted from the
talents of great Homer.--When the sailor spreads his sail against
the north wind, and the ass thinks to conquer the camel in the
race, then the hand fears not to put the face towards heaven;
I am wounded and carry the weapon shut up in my breast.--The
shaggy she-goat wishes to be preferred to the sheep, in her folly
not considering with what she is clothed; so fine a fleece has
not been given to her: as the tortoise once said to the winged
birds.--Although the logicians are satisfied with naked glory,
and live under the garb of the needy, nevertheless they envy the
rich. Envy seeks the summit, the wind blows vehemently on lofty
places.--It is always the manner of envy, that they aim from
the bottom upwards, the last speak against the first: he who is
elevated does not think it worth while to envy him who is most
low. The envious man becomes lean by regarding the fatness of
another.--If you do not desire to live poor and beggarly, always
labouring like the servant Stichus, a fig-tree without fruit
worthy to be cast in the fire; love others so that thou mayest be
a dear friend to thyself.--It is good for poor men to adhere to
the law; I have chosen to labour much on the arts. I am ignorant
therefore how I may be guided, who once composed verses, while
my study flourished.--If any one will expend his labour upon
logic, will it not produce him thorns and brambles? in too much
sweat he will eat his bread; and even that his talkative tongue
will hardly give him.--The logician in vain sows his seed in the
sand, for in harvest time there will be no fruit; upon a barren
fig-tree all labour is lost. Such as is the tree, such will be
the fruit it bears.--Although you be arrived at the summit of
the arts, you will be in a short time despised by the younger
aspirants; they will say of thee, “he doats, affected with old
age.” Old age, why do you emulous cease to hasten the end?--Thou
sittest in the chair of a true pestilence, who readest the
tragedy of Thebes or of Troy; [whilst] the seats of the legists
abound in riches, and now he goes on horseback who used to go
on foot.--He who sits up at night to study the arts is truly a
fool; why do you yawn over the Georgic? thus the field may lie
neglected and barren, while by chance you may be desirous of
understanding the culture of the earth.--It is right that we
should labour upon the laws; a field that produces a hundred-fold
is not to be set aside. The book of the poor is to be read by the
poor man; this chiefly is the book to be devotedly cultivated
by thee.--Why do you consume your time upon dialectics, thou
who receivest no income from other sources? Let him cultivate
it who is born of high family in the country, rich in land and
rich in money laid out at interest.--Let the rich man learn to
be strong in fallacies; let him learn to make a she-goat of the
person of chance. Let him never desert the arts, before the hour
of his death. Satisfied with fame, let Lucan lie hid in the
gardens.--If imbued in the arts he should chance to fail, he will
fly to the legists if he will be safe: because he knows no more
how to defend himself than one who is dumb, having pursued too
much and too often the study of the Greeks.--I see the halls of
the nobles open; when the legist comes, the bolts are undone;
thou, shut out, mayest sit at the door, although thou thyself,
Homer, shouldst come along with the muses.--The logician may be
compared to a spider, which learns to spin subtle webs, that are
made out of its own bowels; the reward is a fly, if by chance
it can be netted.--If fortune favour a logician in his kindred,
for she looks upon the logician with a benignant countenance; if
a logician be rich under this sign of the heavens; he is a rare
bird upon earth, and very like a black swan.--If you wish to know
the secrets of nature, study physic which gives health to the
limbs; what man’s need requires is enough, Galen and the sanction
of Justinian are riches enough.

* * * * *

The following English verses, composed at the same period, seem also intended as a satire upon the studies and arguments of the dialectitians.

THE SONG OF “NEGO.”

[From MS. Harl. No. 913, fol. 58, v^o. written in 1308.]

Hit nis bot trewth, I wend, an afte
For te sette _nego_ in eni crafte;
Trewth so drawith to heven blisse,
_Nego_ doth noȝt so i-wisse.
For-sak and save is thef in lore,
_Nego_ is pouer clark in store.
Whan menne horlith ham here and there,
_Nego_ savith ham fram care.
Awei with _nego_ ute of place!
Whose wol have Goddis grace;
Whoso wol aȝens the devil fiȝte,
Ther mai _nego_ sit a-riȝte.
Ak loke that we never more
_Nego_ sette in trew lore.
For whoso can lite, hath sone i-do,
Anone he drawith to _nego_.
Now o clerk seiith _nego_;
And that other _dubito_;
Seiith another _concedo_;
And another _obligo_,
_Verum falsum_ sette therto;
Than is al the lore i-do.
Thus the fals clerkes of har hevid,
Makith men trewth of ham be revid.

TRANSLATION.--It is contrary to truth, I believe, and ...--to
set _nego_ in any craft;--truth draweth us to the joy of
heaven,--_nego_ does not so certainly.--Forsake and save is a
thief in doctrine,--_nego_ is a poor clerk in store.--When men
hurl them here and there,--_nego_ saves them from care.--Away
with _nego_ out of the place!--whoever will have God’s
grace;--he who will against the devil fight,--there may _nego_
sit rightly.--But see that we never more--set _nego_ in true
doctrine.--For he who knows little has soon done,--anon he
draws to _nego_.--Now one clerk says _nego_;--and the other
_dubito_;--saith another _concedo_;--and another _obligo_,--with
_verum falsum_ set to it;--then is all their learning done.--Thus
the false clerks of their head,--make men of truth through them
be bereaved.

* * * * *

The Scottish wars occupied incessantly the remaining years of Edward’s reign. The following song was composed probably in the September of the year 1306, soon after the battle of Kirkencliff, and on the immediate occasion of the execution of Sir Simon Fraser, who was taken prisoner there.

SONG ON THE EXECUTION OF SIR SIMON FRASER.

[MS. Harl. 2253, fol. 59, v^o. of reign of Edw. II.]

Lystneth, lordynges, a newe song ichulle bigynne,
Of the traytours of Scotlond that take beth wyth gynne;
Mon that loveth falsnesse and nule never blynne,
Sore may him drede the lyf that he is ynne,
ich understonde:
Selde wes he glad
That never nes a-sad
of nythe ant of onde.

That y sugge by this Scottes that bueth nou to-drawe,
The hevedes o Londone brugge whose con y-knawe:
He wenden han buen kynges, ant seiden so in sawe;
Betere hem were han y-be barouns ant libbe in Godes lawe,
wyth love.
Whose hateth soth ant ryht,
Lutel he douteth Godes myht,
the heye kyng above.

To warny alle the gentilmen that bueth in Scotlonde,
The Waleis wes to-drawe, seththe he was an-honge,
Al quic biheveded, ys bowels y-brend,
The heved to Londone brugge wes send
to abyde.
After Simond Frysel,
That wes traytour ant fykell,
and y-cud ful wyde.

Sire Edward oure kyng, that ful ys of pieté,
The Waleis quarters sende to is oune contré,
On four half to honge, huere myrour to be,
Theropon to thenche, that monie myhten se
ant drede.
Why nolden he be war
Of the bataile of Donbar,
hou evele hem con spede?

Bysshopes and barouns come to the kynges pes,
Ase men that weren fals, fykel, ant les,
Othes hue him sworen in stude ther he wes,
To buen him hold ant trewe for ailes cunnes res,
thrye,
That hue ne shulden aȝeyn him go,
So hue were temed tho;
weht halt hit to lye?

To the kyng Edward hii fasten huere fay;
Fais wes here foreward so forst is in May,
That sonne from the southward wypeth away:
Moni proud Scot therof mene may
to ȝere.
Nes never Scotlond
With dunt of monnes hond
allinge a-boht so duere!

The Bisshop of Glascou ychot he was y-laht;
The Bisshop of Seint André bothe he beth y-caht;
The Abbot of Scon with the Kyng nis nout saht;
Al here purpos y-come hit ys to naht,
thurh ryhte.
Hii were unwis
When hii thohte pris
aȝeyn huere kyng to fyhte.

Thourh consail of thes bisshopes y-nemned byfore,
Sire Robert the Bruytz furst kyng wes y-core,
He mai everuche day ys fon him se byfore;
Ȝef hee mowen him hente, ichot he bith forlore,
sauntz fayle.
Soht for te sugge,
Duere he shal abugge
that he bigon batayle.

Hii that him crounede proude were ant bolde,
Hii maden kyng of somere, so hii ner ne sholde,
Hii setten on ys heved a croune of rede golde,
Ant token him a kyne-ȝerde so me kyng sholde,
to deme.
Tho he wes set in see,
Lutel god couthe he
kyne-riche to ȝeme.

Now Kyng Hobbe in the mures ȝongeth,
For te come to toune nout him ne longeth;
The barouns of Engelond, myhte hue him gripe,
He him wolde techen on Englysshe to pype,
thourh streynthe:
Ne be he ner so stout,
Ȝet he bith y-soht out
o brede and o leynthe.

Sire Edward of Carnarvan, Jhesu him save ant see!
Sire Emer de Valence, gentil knyht ant free,
Habbeth y-suore huere oht that, _par la grace Dée!_
Hee wollith ous delyvren of that false contree,
ȝef hii conne.
Much hath Scotlond forlore,
Whet a-last, whet bifore,
ant lutel pris wonne.

Nou ichulle fonge ther ich er let,
Ant tellen ou of Frisel, ase ich ou byhet;
In the batayle of Kyrkenclyf, Frysel was y-take;
Ys continaunce abated eny bost to make
biside Strivelyn:
Knyhtes ant sweynes,
Fremen ant theynes,
monye with hym.

So hii weren byset on everuche halve,
Somme slaye were, ant somme dreynte hem-selve;
Sire Johan of Lyndeseye nolde nout abyde,
He wod into the water his feren him bysyde
to adrenche.
Whi nolden hii be war?
Ther nis non aȝeyn stare:--
why nolden by hem by-thenche?

This wes byfore Seint Bartholomeus masse,
That Frysel wes y-take, were hit more other lasse:
To Sire Thomas of Multone, gentil baroun ant fre,
Ant to Sire Johan Jose, bytake tho wes he
to honde:
He wes y-fetered weel
Both with yrn ant wyth steel,
to bringen of Scotlonde.

Sone therafter the tydynge to the kyng com;
He him sende to Londone with mony armed grom;
He com yn at Newegate, y telle yt ou aplyht,
A gerland of leves on ys hed y-dyht
of grene;
For he shulde ben y-knowe
Bothe of heȝe ant of lowe
for treytour, y wene.

Y-fetered were ys legges under his horse wombe;
Bothe with yrn ant with stel mankled were ys honde;
A gerland of peruenke set on ys heved;
Muche wes the poer that him wes byreved
in londe:
So God me amende!
Lutel he wende
so be broht in honde.

Sire Herbert of Morham, feyr knyht ant bold,
For the love of Frysel ys lyf wes y-sold;
A wajour he made, so hit wes y-told,
Ys heved of to smhyte ȝef me him brohte in hold,
wat so bytyde.
Sory wes he thenne,
Tho he myhte him kenne
thourh the toun ryde.

Thenne seide ys scwyer a word anon ryht,
“Sire, we beth dede, ne helpeth hit no wyht,”--
(Thomas de Boys the scwyer wes to nome)--
“Nou ychot oure wajour turneth us to grome,
so y-bate.”
Y do ou to wyte,
Here heved wes of smyte
byfore the Tour gate.

This wes on oure Levedy even, for sothe ych understonde,
The justices seten for the knyhtes of Scotlonde,
Sire Thomas of Multone, an hendy knyht ant wys,
Ant Sire Rauf of Sondwyche that muchel is told in pris,
ant Sire Johan Abel;
Mo y mihte telle by tale,
Bothe of grete ant of smale,
ȝe knowen suythe wel.

Thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre,
“Sire Simond Frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be,
In water ant in londe, that monie myhten se:
What sayst thou thareto? hou wolt thou quite the?
do say.”
So foul he him wiste,
Nede waron truste
for to segge, nay.

Ther he wes y-demed, so hit wes londes lawe,
For that he wes lord-swyke, furst he wes to-drawe,
Upon a retheres hude forth he wes y-tuht:
Sum while in ys time he wes a modi knyht,
in huerte.
Wickednesse ant sunne,
Hit is lutel wunne
that maketh the body smerte.

For al is grete poer, ȝet he wes y-laht;
Falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht;
Tho he wes in Scotlond, lutel wes ys thoht
Of the harde jugement that him wes bysoht
in stounde.
He wes four-sithe for-swore
To the kyng ther bifore,
ant that him brohte to grounde.

With feteres ant with gyves ichot he wes to-drowe,
From the Tour of Londone, that monie myhte knowe,
In a curtel of burel a selkethe wyse,
Ant a gerland on ys heved of the newe guyse,
thurh Cheepe;
Moni mon of Engelond
For to se Symond
thideward con lepe.

Tho he com to galewes, furst he wes an-honge,
Al quic by-heveded, thah him thohte longe,
Seththe he wes y-opened, is boweles y-brend,
The heved to Londone-brugge wes send
to shonde:
So ich ever mote the!
Sum while wende he
ther lutel to stonde.

He rideth thourh the sité, as y telle may,
With gomen and wyth solas, that wes here play,
To Londone-brugge hee nome the way,
Moni wes the wyves chil that theron laketh a day,
ant seide, alas!
That he wes i-bore,
Ant so villiche for-lore,
so feir mon ase he was.

Nou stont the heved above the tu-brugge,
Faste bi Waleis, soth for te sugge;
After socour of Scotlond longe he mowe prye,
Ant after help of Fraunce wet halt hit to lye,
ich wene.
Betere him were in Scotlond
With is ax in ys hond
to pleyen o the grene.

Ant the body hongeth at the galewes faste,
With yrnene claspes longe to laste;
For te wyte wel the body, ant Scottyshe to garste,
Foure ant twenti ther beoth to sothe ate laste
by nyhte.
Ȝef eny were so hardi
The body to remuy
al so to dyhte.

Were Sire Robert the Bruytz y-come to this londe,
Ant the Erl of Asseles, that harde is an honde,
Alle the other pouraille, for sothe ich understonde,
Mihten be ful blythe ant thonke Godes sonde,
wyth ryhte:
Thenne myhte uch mon
Bothe riden ant gon
in pes withoute vyhte.

The traytours of Scotlond token hem to rede,
The barouns of Engelond to brynge to dede;
Charles of Fraunce, so moni mon tolde,
With myht ant with streynthe hem helpe wolde,
his thonkes!
Tprot, Scot, for thi strif!
Hang up thyn hachet ant thi knyf,
Whil him lasteth the lyf
with the longe shonkes.

TRANSLATION.--Listen, lordings, a new song I will begin,--of the
traitors of Scotland who are taken with a trap;--he who loves
falseness, and will never leave it,--sore may he dread the life
that he is in,--I believe:--seldom was he glad--that never was
sorrowful--for his wickedness and turbulence.

I say that of these Scots who are now drawn,--their heads on
London bridge anybody may recognise:--they thought to have been
kings, and said so in their talk;--better was it for them to have
been barons and live in God’s law,--with love.--He who hateth
truth and right,--little he fears God’s might,--the high king
above.

To be a warning to all the gentlemen who are in Scotland,--the
Wallace was drawn, and afterwards was hanged,--beheaded all
alive, his bowels burnt,--the head to London Bridge was sent--to
remain there.--Afterwards Simon Fraser, who was traitor and
fickle,--and known full wide.

Sir Edward our king, who is full of piety,--sent the Wallace’s
quarters to his own country,--to hang in four parts (of the
country), to be their mirror,--thereupon to think, in order that
many might see--and dread.--Why would they not take warning--of
the battle of Dunbar,--how ill they sped?

Bishops and barons came to the king’s peace,--as men that were
false, fickle, and lying,--oaths they swore to him in the place
where he was,--to be firm and true to him in all kinds of
moments,--thrice (?),--that they should not against him go,--so
were they tamed then;--what profits it to lie?

To King Edward they plight their faith;--false was their covenant
as frost is in May,--which the sun from the southward wipes
away;--many a proud Scot thereof may lament--in year.--Was never
Scotland--by dint of man’s hand--altogether bought so dear.

The Bishop of Glasgow, I wot he was taken;--the Bishop of St.
Andrew, too, he is caught;--the Abbot of Scone with the King is
not ...;--all their purpose is come to nothing,--by right.--They
were unwise--when they thought it praiseworthy--against their
king to fight.

Through counsel of these bishops named before,--Sir Robert the
Bruce first was chosen king,--he may every day his foes see
before him;--if they may catch him, I wot he is undone,--without
fail.--To say the truth,--dearly he shall pay--for having begun
battle.

They that crowned him were proud and bold,--they made a king of
summer, as they never should,--they set on his head a crown of
red gold,--and gave him a sceptre as one should to a king,--to
judge.--When he was set on a throne,--little good knew he--a
kingdom to rule.

Now King Hobbe gangeth in the moors,--to come to town he has no
desire;--the barons of England if they might gripe him,--they
would teach him to pipe in English,--through strength:--be he
never so stout,--yet he is sought out--wide and far.

Sir Edward of Caernarvon, (Jesus save him and have him in
regard!)--and Sir Aymer de Valence, a gentle knight and
liberal,--they have sworn their oath that, by the grace of
God!--they will deliver us from that false country,--if
they can.--Much hath Scotland lost,--what latterly and what
before,--and little praise won.

Now I shall take up where I left off before,--and tell you of
Fraser, as I promised you;--in the battle of Kirkencliff Fraser
was taken;--his countenance ceased from making any boast--near
Stirling:--knights and swains,--freemen and thanes,--many with
him.

They were so beset on every part,--some were slain and some
drowned themselves.--Sir John de Lyndsay would not remain,--he
waded into the water with his companions beside him--to
drown.--Why would not they beware?--There is none looked again
(?):--why would not they reflect?

It was before St. Bartholomew’s mass,--that Fraser was taken,
were it more or less:--To Sir Thomas de Multon, a gentle knight
and liberal,--and to Sir John Jose, he was delivered then--in
hand:--he was well fettered--both with iron and with steel,--to
bring out of Scotland.

Soon afterwards the tidings came to the king;--they sent him to
London with many an armed man;--he came in at Newgate, I tell
it you faithfully,--a garland of leaves placed on his head--of
green;--because he should be known--both by high and by low--as
a traitor, I ween.

Fettered were his legs under his horse’s belly;--both with iron
and with steel manacled were his hands;--a garland of periwinkle
set on his head;--much was the power that was taken from him--in
land:--As may God amend me!--he little supposed--so to be brought
in hand.

Sir Herbert of Morham, a fair knight and bold,--for the love
of Fraser his life was sold;--a wager he made, so it was
said,--to smite off his head if they took him in hold,--whatever
betide.--Sorry was he then,--when he might know him--to ride
through the town.

Then said his squire a word anon right,--“Sir, we are dead, there
is no creature to help us;”--(the squire was named Thomas de
Bois)--“now I wot our wager turns to our sorrow,--so bet.”--I
give you to know,--their heads were smitten off--before the gate
of the Tower.

It was on our Lady’s eve, for truth I understand,--the justices
sat for the knights of Scotland,--Sir Thomas de Multon, a
gentle knight and wise,--and Sir Ralph de Sandwich, who is much
esteemed in worth,--and Sir John Abel;--more I might tell by
reckoning,--both of great and of small,--ye know very well.

Then said the justice, who is gentle and free,--“Sir Simon
Fraser, the king’s traitor hast thou been,--on water and on land,
as many may see:--what sayest thou thereto? how wilt thou clear
thyself?--do say.”--He knew himself to be so foul,--he had not
whereon to trust--to say, nay.

There he was judged, as it was the law of the land,--because he
was traitor to his lord, first he was drawn,--upon a bullock’s
hide forth he was led:--for once in his life he was a moody
knight--in heart.--Wickedness and sin,--it is little gain--that
makes the body smart.

For all his great power, still he was taken;--falseness and
treachery all come to nothing;--when he was in Scotland, little
was his thought--of the hard judgment which was prepared for
him--in a short time.--He was four times perjured--to the king
there before,--and that brought him to the ground.

With fetters and with gyves I wot he was drawn,--from the
Tower of London, that many might know,--in a kirtle of
sack-cloth in strange wise,--and a garland on his head of the
new guise,--through Cheap;--many a man of England--to see
Simon--thither began to leap.

When he came to the gallows, first he was hanged,--beheaded all
alive, though it seemed to him long,--afterwards he was opened,
his bowels burnt,--the head to London Bridge was sent--for
disgrace:--As I may ever thrive!--at one time he thought--little
there to stand.

They ride through the city, as I may tell,--with game and with
solace, that was their play,--to London Bridge they took the
way,--many was the woman’s child that thereon lacks-a-day,--and
said, alas!--that he was born,--and so vilely undone,--so fair a
man as he was.

Now stands the head above the twi-bridge,--fast by Wallace,
to say the truth;--after succour from Scotland long they may
pray,--and after help from France what profits it to wait, (?)--I
ween.--It were better for him in Scotland--with his axe in his
hand--to play on the green.

And the body hangs fast on the gallows,--with iron clasps long
to last;--to guard well the body, and the Scotch to drive away
(?),--four-and-twenty there are for sooth at least--by night.--If
any one were so hardy--the body to remove--immediately to attack
them.

If Sir Robert the Bruce were come to this land,--and the Earl of
Athol that is hard in hand,--all the rest of the common people,
for truth I understand,--might be full blith, and thank God’s
sending,--with right:--then might each man--both ride and go--in
peace, without fighting.

The traitors of Scotland took counsel with themselves,--to bring
the barons of England to death;--Charles of France, as many a one
said,--with might and with strength would help them,--thanks to
him!--Tprot, Scot, for thy strife!--hang up thy hatchet and thy
knife,--while life lasts to him--with the long shanks.

* * * * *

The following song, remarkable for the playfulness of its metres and rhymes, gives us a strong picture of the extortions committed at this period of our history upon the weak and defenceless, by the magistrates and the officers connected with the courts of law.

SONG ON THE VENALITY OF THE JUDGES.

[From MS. Harl. No. 913, fol. 59, r^o. of the beginning of the 14th century. This song is in the MS. written as prose.]

Beati qui esuriunt
Et sitiunt, et faciunt
justitiam,
Et odiunt et fugiunt
injuriæ nequitiam;
Quos nec auri copia
Nec divitum encennia
trahunt a rigore,
nec pauperum clamore;
Quæ sunt justa judicant,
Et a jure non claudicant
divitum favore.
Sed nunc miro more
Multos fallit seculum,
Et trahit in periculum,
mundi ob favorem,
ut lambeant honorem.
Hoc facit pecunia,
Quam omnis fere curia
jam duxit in uxorem.

Sunt justitiarii,
Quos favor et denarii
alliciunt a jure;
Hii sunt nam bene recolo,
Quod censum dant diabolo,
et serviunt hii pure.
Nam jubet lex naturæ,
Quod judex in judicio
Nec prece nec pretio
acceptor sit personæ;
quid, Jhesu ergo bone,
Fiet de judicibus,
Qui prece vel muneribus
cedunt a ratione?

Revera tales judices
Nuncios multiplices
habent;--audi quare.
Si terram vis rogare,
Accedet ad te nuncius,
Et loquitur discretius,
dicens, “Amice care,
vis tu placitare?
Sum cum justitiario
Qui te modo vario
possum adjuvare;
si vis impetrare
Per suum subsidium,
Da michi dimidium,
et te volo juvare.”

Ad pedes sedent clerici,
Qui velut famelici
sunt, donis inhiantes;
et pro lege dantes,
Quod hii qui nichil dederint,
Quamvis cito venerint,
erunt expectantes.

Sed si quædam nobilis,
Pulcra vel amabilis,
cum capite cornuto,
auro circumvoluto,
Accedat ad judicium,
Hæc expedit negotium
ore suo muto.

Si pauper muliercula,
Non habens munuscula,
formam neque genus,
quam non pungit Venus,
Infecto negotio
Suo pergit hospitio,
dolendo corde tenus.

Sunt quidam ad hanc curiam,
Qui exprimunt juditiam;
dicuntur relatores;
cæteris pejores.
Utraque manu capiunt,
Et sic eos decipiunt
quorum sunt tutores.
Et quid janitores?
Qui dicunt pauperibus
Curiam sequentibus,
“Pauper, cur laboras?
Cur facis hic moras?
Nisi des pecuniam
Cuique ad hanc curiam,
in vanum laboras.
Quid, miser, ergo ploras?
Si nichil attuleris,
stabis omnino foras.”

De vicecomitibus,
Quam duri sunt pauperibus,
quis potest enarrare?
Qui nichil potest dare,
Huc et illuc trahitur,
Et in assisis ponitur,
et cogitur jurare,
non ausus murmurare.
Quod si murmuraverit,
Ni statim satisfecerit,
est totum salsum mare.

Hoc idem habent vitium,
Cum subeunt hospitium
cujusdam patriotæ,
vel abbathiæ notæ,
Quo potus et cibaria,
Et cuncta necessaria,
eis dentur devote.
Nil prosunt sibi talia,
Nisi mox jocalia
post prandium sequantur,
et cunctis largiantur,
Bedellis, garcionibus,
Et qui sunt secum omnibus.
Nec adhuc pacantur,
nisi transmittantur
Robæ suis uxoribus
Ex variis coloribus.
Si non clam mittantur,
Et post sic operantur;
Quotquot habent averia
Ad sua maneria
cum impetu fugantur,
et ipsi imparcantur
Quousque satisfecerint,
Ita quod duplum dederint;
tunc demum liberantur.

Clericos irrideo
Suos, quos prius video
satis indigentes,
et quasi nil habentes,
Quando ballivam capiunt;
Qua capta mox superbiunt,
et crescunt sibi dentes,
collaque erigentes,
Incipiunt perpropere
Terras et domos emere,
et redditus placentes;
nummosque colligentes,
Pauperes despiciunt,
Et novas leges faciunt,
vicinos opprimentes;
fiuntque sapientes.
In hoc malum faciunt,
Et patriam decipiunt,
nemini parcentes.

TRANSLATION.--Blessed are they who hunger and thirst, and do
justice, and hate and avoid the wickedness of injustice; whom
neither abundance of gold nor the jewels of the rich draw from
their inflexibility, or from the cry of the poor; they judge what
is just, and do not fall off from the right for the sake of the
rich. But now the age deceives many in a wonderful manner, and
draws them into danger, for love of the world, that they may lick
up honours. The cause of this is money, to which almost every
court has now wedded itself.

There are judges, whom partiality and bribes seduce from justice;
these are they, I remember well, that pay toll to the devil,
and they serve him alone. For the law of nature commands, that
a judge in giving judgment should not be an acceptor of anybody
either for prayer or money; what therefore, O good Jesus, will be
done with the judges, who for prayers or gifts recede from what
is just?

In fact such judges have numerous messengers;--listen for what
purpose. If you wish to claim land, a messenger will come to you,
and speaks in confidence, saying, “Dear friend, do you wish to
plead? I am one who can help you in various ways with the judge;
if you wish to obtain anything by his aid, give me half, and I
will help you.”

At his feet sit clerks, who are like people half-famished,
gaping for gifts; and proclaiming it as law, that those who give
nothing, although they come early, will have to wait.

But if some noble lady, fair and lovely, with horns on her head,
and that encircled with gold, come for judgment, such a one
despatches her business without having to say a word.

If the woman be poor, and has no gifts, neither beauty nor rich
relationship, whom Venus does not stimulate, she goes home
without effecting her business, sorrowful at heart.

There are some at this court, who express judgment; whom they
call relaters, worse than the others. They take with both hands,
and so deceive those whose defenders they are. And what shall we
say to the ushers? who say to the poor that follow the court,
“Poor man, why do you trouble yourself? why do you wait here?
unless you give money to everybody in this court, you labour
in vain. Why then, wretch, do you lament? If you have brought
nothing, you will stand altogether out of doors.”

Concerning the sheriffs, who can relate with sufficient fulness
how hard they are to the poor? He who has nothing to give is
dragged hither and thither, and is placed in the assises, and is
obliged to take his oath, without daring to murmur. But if he
should murmur, unless he immediately make satisfaction, it is all
salt sea.

The same people have this vice, when they enter the house of some
countryman, or of a famous abbey, where drink and victuals, and
all things necessary, are given to them devoutly. Such things
are of no avail, unless by and by the jewels follow after the
meal, and are distributed to all, bedels and garçons, and all
who are with them. Nor even yet are they paid, unless robes of
various colours are transmitted to their wives. If these are not
sent privately, then they proceed as follows; whatever cattle
they find, are driven off violently to their own manors, and
the owners themselves are put in confinement until they make
satisfaction, so that they give the double: then at length they
are liberated.

I laugh at their clerks, whom I see at first indigent enough, and
possessing next to nothing, when they receive a bailiwick; which
received they next show themselves proud, and their teeth grow,
and holding up their necks they begin very hastily to buy lands
and houses, and agreeable rents; and amassing money themselves,
they despise the poor, and make new laws, oppressing their
neighbours; and they become wise men. In this they do wickedness,
and deceive their country, sparing no one.

* * * * *

The next song was doubtlessly considered as very libellous at the time when it was composed, and professes to have been written in the wild wood; the means of publication being to drop it on the high road, that it might fall into the hands of passengers. It is directed against one of the king’s ordinances.

THE OUTLAW’S SONG OF TRAILLEBASTON.

[MS. Harl. No. 2253, fol. 113, v^o. of the reign of Edw. II.]

Talent me prent de rymer e de geste fere
D’une purveaunce qe purveu est en la terre;
Mieux valsit uncore que la chose fust à fere:
Si Dieu ne prenge garde, je quy que sourdra guere.

Ce sunt les articles de Trayllebastoun;
Salve le roi meismes, de Dieu eit maleysoun
Qe a de primes graunta tiel commissioun!
Quar en ascuns des pointz n’est mie resoun.

Sire, si je voderoi mon garsoun chastier
De une buffe ou de deus, pur ly amender,
Sur moi betera bille, e me frad atachier,
E avant qe isse de prisone raunsoun grant doner.

Quaraunte souz pernent pur ma raunsoun,
E le viscounte vint à son guerdoun,
Qu’il ne me mette en parfounde prisoun.
Ore agardez, seigneurs, est-ce resoun?

Pur ce me tendroi antre bois sur le jolyf umbray;
Là n’y a fauceté ne nulle male lay;--
En le bois de Belregard, où vole le jay,
E chaunte russinole touz jours santz delay.

Mès le male doseynes, dount Dieu n’eit jà pieté!
Parmi lur fauce bouches me ount enditée
De male robberies e autre mavestée,
Que je n’os entre mes amis estre receptée.