The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900 — Context and Discussion

id scho bur the flour, And eik hir faderis air; Off lusty laitis and he honour, Meik bot and debonair: Scho wynnit in a bigly bour, On fold wes nane so fair, Princis luvit hir paramour In cuntreis our allquhair.

Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King A foull Gyand of ane; Stollin he has the Lady ying, Away with hir is gane, And kest her in his dungering Quhair licht scho micht se nane; Hungir and cauld and grit thristing Scho fand into hir waine.

He wes the laithliest on to luk That on the grund mycht gang: His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk, Thairwith fyve quarteris lang;

ring] reign. fald] enfold. ying] young. fairheid] beauty. air] heir. laitis] manners. bot and] and also. scho wynnit] she dwelt. bigly] well-built. fold] earth. paramour] lovingly. our allquhair] all the world over. a lyt besyde] a little, (i. e. close) beside. of ane] as any. kest] cast. dungering] dungeon. into hir waine] in her lodging. hellis cruk] hell-claw.

Thair wes nane that he ourtuk, In rycht or yit in wrang, Bot all in schondir he thame schuk, The Gyand wes so strang.

He held the Lady day and nycht Within his deip dungeoun, He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht For gold nor yit ransoun-- Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht, To fecht with his persoun, To fecht with him beth day and nycht, Quhill ane wer dungin doun.

The King gart seik baith fer and neir, Beth be se and land, Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir Wald fecht with that Gyand: A worthy Prince, that had no peir, Hes tane the deid on hand For the luve of the Lady cleir, And held full trew cunnand.

That Prince come prowdly to the toun Of that Gyand to heir, And fawcht with him, his awin persoun, And tuke him presoneir, And kest him in his awin dungeoun Allane withouten feir, With hungir, cauld, and confusioun, As full weill worthy weir.

quhill] until. dungin doun] beaten down. his awin persoun] himself. withouten feir] without companion.

Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht Unto her fadir fre. Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht That he behuvit to de; Unlusum was his likame dicht, His sark was all bludy; In all the world was thair a wicht So peteouss for to se?

The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane, With all her mekill mycht-- ‘I luvit nevir lufe bot ane, That dulfully now is dicht; God sen my lyfe were fra me tane Or I had seen yone sicht, Or ellis in begging evir to gane Furth with yone curtass knycht.’

He said ‘Fair lady, now mone I De, trestly ye me trow; Take ye my serk that is bludy, And hing it forrow yow; First think on it, and syne on me, Quhen men cumis yow to wow.’ The Lady said ‘Be Mary fre, Thairto I mak a vow.’

Quhen that scho lukit to the sark Scho thocht on the persoun, And prayit for him with all hir hart That lowsit hir of bandoun,

the bricht] the fair one. likame] body. lowsit hir of. bandoun] loosed her from thraldom.

Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk Into that deip dungeoun; And evir quhill scho wes in quert, That was hir a lessoun.

Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht That no man wald scho tak: Sa suld we do our God of micht That did all for us mak; Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht, For sinfull manis sak, Sa suld we do beth day and nycht, With prayaris to him mak.

This King is lyk the Trinitie, Baith in hevin and heir; The manis saule to the Lady, The Gyand to Lucefeir, The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre And coft our synnis deir; The pit to Hele with panis fell, The Syn to the woweir.

The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay With men that wald hir wed; Sa suld we wryth all sin away That in our breist is bred. I pray to Jesu Chryst verray, For ws his blud that bled, To be our help on domisday Quhair lawis ar straitly led.

quert] prison. coft] bought. straitly led] strictly carried out.

The saule is Godis dochtir deir, And eik his handewerk, That was betrayit with Lucefeir, Quha sittis in hell full merk: Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir, Hend men, will ye nocht herk? And for his lufe that bocht us deir Think on the BLUDY SERK!

Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness, Delytsum lily of everie lustynes, Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear, And everie vertew that is wenit dear, Except onlie that ye are mercyless.

Into your garth this day I did persew; There saw I flowris that fresche were of hew; Baith quhyte and reid most lusty were to seyne, And halesome herbis upon stalkis greene; Yet leaf nor flowr find could I nane of rew.

I doubt that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne, Has slain this gentil herb, that I of mene; Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paine That I would make to plant his root againe,-- So confortand his levis unto me bene.

_18._ rois] rose. wenit] weened, esteemed. garth] garden-close. to seyne] to see. that I of mene] that I complain of, mourn for.

_19._ _In Honour of the City of London_

London, thou art of townes _A per se_. Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight, Of high renoun, riches and royaltie; Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght; Of most delectable lusty ladies bright; Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall; Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troynovaunt, Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy; In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant, Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure and of joy, A richer restith under no Christen roy; For manly power, with craftis naturall, Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie, Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour; Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie; Of royall cities rose and geraflour; Empress of townes, exalt in honour; In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall; Swete paradise precelling in pleasure; London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne, Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare, Under thy lusty wallys renneth down, Where many a swan doth swymme with wyngis fair;

gladdith] rejoice. Troynovaunt] Troja nova or Trinovantum. fourmeth] appeareth. geraflour] gillyflower.

Where many a barge doth saile and row with are; Where many a ship doth rest with top-royall. O, towne of townes! patrone and not compare, London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers white Been merchauntis full royall to behold; Upon thy stretis goeth many a semely knyght In velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold. By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of old May be the hous of Mars victoryall, Whose artillary with tonge may not be told: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Strong be thy wallis that about thee standis; Wise be the people that within thee dwellis; Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis; Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis; Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis; Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small; Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce, With sword of justice thee ruleth prudently. No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or Floraunce In dignitye or honour goeth to hym nigh. He is exampler, loode-ster, and guye; Principall patrone and rose orygynalle, Above all Maires as maister most worthy: London, thou art the flour of Cities all.

are] oar. small] slender. kellis] hoods, head-dresses. guye] guide.

_20._ _On the Nativity of Christ_

_Rorate coeli desuper_! Hevins, distil your balmy schouris! For now is risen the bricht day-ster, Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris: The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris, Surmounting Phebus in the Est, Is cumin of his hevinly touris: _Et nobis Puer natus est_.

Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis, Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir, And all ye hevinly operationis, Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir, Fire, erd, air, and water cleir, To Him gife loving, most and lest, That come in to so meik maneir; _Et nobis Puer natus est_.

Synnaris be glad, and penance do, And thank your Maker hairtfully; For he that ye micht nocht come to To you is cumin full humbly Your soulis with his blood to buy And loose you of the fiendis arrest-- And only of his own mercy; _Pro nobis Puer natus est_.

All clergy do to him inclyne, And bow unto that bairn benyng, And do your observance divyne To him that is of kingis King:

schouris] showers. cumin] come, entered. seir] various. erd] earth. lest] least. synnaris] sinners. benyng] benign.

Encense his altar, read and sing In holy kirk, with mind degest, Him honouring attour all thing _Qui nobis Puer natus est_.

Celestial foulis in the air, Sing with your nottis upon hicht, In firthis and in forrestis fair Be myrthful now at all your mycht; For passit is your dully nicht, Aurora has the cloudis perst, The Sone is risen with glaidsum licht, _Et nobis Puer natus est_.

Now spring up flouris fra the rute, Revert you upward naturaly, In honour of the blissit frute That raiss up fro the rose Mary; Lay out your levis lustily, Fro deid take life now at the lest In wirschip of that Prince worthy _Qui nobis Puer natus est_.

Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht! Regions of air mak armony! All fish in flud and fowl of flicht Be mirthful and mak melody! All Gloria in excelsis cry! Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,-- He that is crownit abone the sky _Pro nobis Puer natus est_!

attour] over, above. perst] pierced. raiss] rose. best] beast.

_21._ _Lament for the Makers_

I that in heill was and gladnèss Am trublit now with great sickness And feblit with infirmitie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd wavis the wicker So wannis this world’s vanitie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Unto the Death gois all Estatis, Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all degree:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He takis the knichtis in to the field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor he is at all mellie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

heill] health. bruckle] brittle, feeble. slee] sly. dansand] dancing. sicker] sure. wicker] willow. wannis] wanes. mellie] mellay.

That strong unmerciful tyrand Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, The babe full of benignitie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He spairis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man flee:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Art-magicianis and astrologgis, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, Themself from Death may not supplee:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

I see that makaris amang the lave Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; Sparit is nocht their facultie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He has done petuously devour The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me._

sowkand] sucking. campion] champion. stour] fight. piscence] puissance. straik] stroke. supplee] save. makaris] poets. the lave] the leave, the rest. padyanis] pageants.

The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun, Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, He has tane out of this cuntrie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

That scorpion fell has done infeck Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek, Fra ballat-making and tragedie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Holland and Barbour he has berevit; Alas! that he not with us levit Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, That made the anteris of Gawaine; Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill Slain with his schour of mortal hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He has reft Merseir his endite, That did in luve so lively write, So short, so quick, of sentence hie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

He has tane Rowll of Aberdene, And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; Two better fallowis did no man see:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

anteris] adventures. schour] shower. endite] inditing. fallowis] fellows.

In Dunfermline he has tane Broun With Maister Robert Henrysoun; Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

And he has now tane, last of a, Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Good Maister Walter Kennedy In point of Death lies verily; Great ruth it were that so suld be:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Sen he has all my brether tane, He will naught let me live alane; Of force I man his next prey be:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

Since for the Death remeid is none, Best is that we for Death dispone, After our death that live may we:-- _Timor Mortis conturbat me_.

_21._ wichtis] wights, persons. man] must. dispone] make disposition.

_22._ _May in the Green-Wood_

In somer when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and long, Hit is full merry in feyre foreste To here the foulys song.

_22._ sheyne] bright.

To se the dere draw to the dale And leve the hilles hee, And shadow him in the leves grene Under the green-wode tree.

Hit befell on Whitsontide Early in a May mornyng, The Sonne up faire can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng.

‘This is a mery mornyng,’ said Litulle Johne, ‘Be Hym that dyed on tre; A more mery man than I am one Lyves not in Christiantè.

‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’ Litulle Johne can say, ‘And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tyme In a mornynge of May.’

I sing of a maiden That is makeles; King of all kings To her son she ches.

He came al so still There his mother was, As dew in April That falleth on the grass.

_23._ makeles] matchless. ches] chose.

He came al so still To his mother’s bour, As dew in April That falleth on the flour.

He came al so still There his mother lay, As dew in April That falleth on the spray.

Mother and maiden Was never none but she; Well may such a lady Goddes mother be.

_24._ _Quia Amore Langueo_

In a valley of this restles mind I sought in mountain and in mead, Trusting a true love for to find. Upon an hill then took I heed; A voice I heard (and near I yede) In great dolour complaining tho: See, dear soul, how my sides bleed _Quia amore langueo_.

Upon this hill I found a tree, Under a tree a man sitting; From head to foot wounded was he; His hearte blood I saw bleeding: A seemly man to be a king, A gracious face to look unto. I askèd why he had paining; [He said,] _Quia amore langueo_.

I am true love that false was never; My sister, man’s soul, I loved her thus. Because we would in no wise dissever I left my kingdom glorious. I purveyed her a palace full precious; She fled, I followed, I loved her so That I suffered this pain piteous _Quia amore langueo_.

My fair love and my spouse bright! I saved her from beating, and she hath me bet; I clothed her in grace and heavenly light; This bloody shirt she hath on me set; For longing of love yet would I not let; Sweete strokes are these: lo! I have loved her ever as I her het _Quia amore langueo_.

I crowned her with bliss and she me with thorn; I led her to chamber and she me to die; I brought her to worship and she me to scorn; I did her reverence and she me villany. To love that loveth is no maistry; Her hate made never my love her foe: Ask me then no question why-- _Quia amore langueo_.

Look unto mine handes, man! These gloves were given me when I her sought; They be not white, but red and wan; Embroidered with blood my spouse them brought. They will not off; I loose hem nought:

I woo her with hem wherever she go. These hands for her so friendly fought _Quia amore langueo_.

Marvel not, man, though I sit still. See, love hath shod me wonder strait: Buckled my feet, as was her will, With sharpe nails (well thou may’st wait!) In my love was never desait; All my membres I have opened her to; My body I made her herte’s bait _Quia amore langueo_.

In my side I have made her nest; Look in, how weet a wound is here! This is her chamber, here shall she rest, That she and I may sleep in fere. Here may she wash, if any filth were; Here is seat for all her woe; Come when she will, she shall have cheer _Quia amore langueo_.

I will abide till she be ready, I will her sue if she say nay; If she be retchless I will be greedy, If she be dangerous I will her pray; If she weep, then bide I ne may: Mine arms ben spread to clip her me to. Cry once, I come: now, soul, assay _Quia amore langueo_.

Fair love, let us go play: Apples ben ripe in my gardayne.

bait] resting-place. weet] wet. in fere] together.

I shall thee clothe in a new array, Thy meat shall be milk, honey and wine. Fair love, let us go dine: Thy sustenance is in my crippe, lo! Tarry thou not, my fair spouse mine, _Quia amore langueo_.

If thou be foul, I shall thee make clean; If thou be sick, I shall thee heal; If thou mourn ought, I shall thee mene; Why wilt thou not, fair love, with me deal? Foundest thou ever love so leal? What wilt thou, soul, that I shall do? I may not unkindly thee appeal _Quia amore langueo_.

What shall I do now with my spouse But abide her of my gentleness, Till that she look out of her house Of fleshly affection? love mine she is; Her bed is made, her bolster is bliss, Her chamber is chosen; is there none mo. Look out on me at the window of kindeness _Quia amore langueo_.

My love is in her chamber: hold your peace! Make ye no noise, but let her sleep. My babe I would not were in disease, I may not hear my dear child weep. With my pap I shall her keep; Ne marvel ye not though I tend her to: This wound in my side had ne’er be so deep But _Quia amore langueo_.

crippe] scrip. mene] care for.

Long thou for love never so high, My love is more than thine may be. Thou weepest, thou gladdest, I sit thee by: Yet wouldst thou once, love, look unto me! Should I always feede thee With children meat? Nay, love, not so! I will prove thy love with adversitè _Quia amore langueo_.

Wax not weary, mine own wife! What mede is aye to live in comfort? In tribulation I reign more rife Ofter times than in disport. In weal and in woe I am aye to support: Mine own wife, go not me fro! Thy mede is marked, when thou art mort: _Quia amore langueo_.

_25._ _The Nut-Brown Maid_

_He._ _Be it right or wrong, these men among_ _On women do complain;_ _Affirming this, how that it is_ _A labour spent in vain_ _To love them wele; for never a dele_ _They love a man again:_ _For let a man do what he can_ _Their favour to attain,_ _Yet if a new to them pursue,_ _Their first true lover than_ _Laboureth for naught; for from her thought_ _He is a banished man._

_25._ never a dele] never a bit. than] then.