This collection, in parts I & II, includes modern English translations of Old English poems and Middle English poems by Aldhelm, John Audelay, Caedmon, Charles d'Orleans, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Cornish, Deor, William Dunbar, Gildas, Godric of Finchale, King Henry VIII, Robert Henryson, William Herebert, Thomas Hoccleve, William Langland, Layamon, John Lydgate, Laurence Minot, The Pearl Poet, Thomas Phillipps, Richard of Caistre, Richard Rolle, James Ryman, John Skelton, William of Shoreham, Winfred aka St. Boniface, and the greatest of the ancient poets, Anonymous. There are also translations/modernizations of late Medieval poems by Thomas Campion, Sir Thomas Wyatt and Johann Angelus Silesius.
The Maiden’s Song aka The Bridal Morn
anonymous Medieval lyric
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maidens came to my mother’s bower.
I had all I would, that hour.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Now silver is white, red is the gold;
The robes they lay in fold.
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
Still through the window shines the sun.
How should I love, yet be so young?
The bailey beareth the bell away;
The lily, the rose, the rose I lay.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.
We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.
Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
To Rosemounde: A Ballade
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Madame, you’re a shrine to loveliness
And as world-encircling as trade’s duties.
For your eyes shine like glorious crystals
And your round cheeks like rubies.
Therefore you’re so merry and so jocund
That at a revel, when that I see you dance,
You become an ointment to my wound,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
For though I weep huge buckets of warm tears,
Still woe cannot confound my heart.
For your seemly voice, so delicately pronounced,
Make my thoughts abound with bliss, even apart.
So courteously I go, by your love bound,
So that I say to myself, in true penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you offer me no dalliance.”
Never was a pike so sauce-immersed
As I, in love, am now enmeshed and wounded.
For which I often, of myself, divine
That I am truly Tristam the Second.
My love may not grow cold, nor numb,
I burn in an amorous pleasance.
Do as you will, and I will be your thrall,
Though you offer me no dalliance.
A Lady without Paragon
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hide, Absalom, your shining tresses;
Esther, veil your meekness;
Retract, Jonathan, your friendly caresses;
Penelope and Marcia Catoun?
Other wives hold no comparison;
Hide your beauties, Isolde and Helen;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Thy body fair? Let it not appear,
Lavinia and Lucretia of Rome;
Nor Polyxena, who found love’s cost so dear;
Nor Cleopatra, with all her passion.
Hide the truth of love and your renown;
And thou, Thisbe, who felt such pain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
Hero, Dido, Laodamia, all fair,
And Phyllis, hanging for Demophon;
And Canace, dead by love’s cruel spear;
And Hypsipyle, betrayed along with Jason;
Make of your truth neither boast nor swoon,
Nor Hypermnestra nor Adriane, ye twain;
My lady comes, all stars to outshine.
“Cantus Troili” from Troilus and Criseide by Petrarch
“If no love is, O God, what fele I so?” translation by Geoffrey Chaucer
modernization by Michael R. Burch
If there’s no love, O God, why then, so low?
And if love is, what thing, and which, is he?
If love is good, whence comes my dismal woe?
If wicked, love’s a wonder unto me,
When every torment and adversity
That comes from him, persuades me not to think,
For the more I thirst, the more I itch to drink!
And if in my own lust I choose to burn,
From whence comes all my wailing and complaint?
If harm agrees with me, where can I turn?
I know not, all I do is feint and faint!
O quick death and sweet harm so pale and quaint,
How may there be in me such quantity
Of you, ’cept I consent to make us three?
And if I so consent, I wrongfully
Complain, I know. Thus pummeled to and fro,
All starless, lost and compassless, am I
Amidst the sea, between two rending winds,
That in diverse directions bid me, “Go!”
Alas! What is this wondrous malady?
For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die.
CHARLES D'ORLEANS
Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.
This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.
Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.
My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.
Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.
Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.
Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!
Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?
SIR THOMAS WYATT
Whoso List to Hunt ("Whoever Longs to Hunt")
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Whoever seeks her out,
I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.
My lute and I
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At most mischief
I suffer grief
Without relief
Since I have none;
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
Nought may prevail
To weep or wail;
Pity doth fail
In you, alas!
Mourning or moan,
Complaint, or none,
It is all one,
As in this case.
For cruelty,
Most that can be,
Hath sovereignty
Within your heart;
Which maketh bare
All my welfare:
Nought do you care
How sore I smart.
No tiger's heart
Is so perverse
Without desert
To wreak his ire;
And me? You kill
For my goodwill;
Lo, how I spill
For my desire!
There is no love
Your heart to move,
And I can prove
No other way;
Therefore I must
Restrain my lust,
Banish my trust
And wealth away.
Thus in mischief
I suffer grief,
Without relief
Since I have none,
My lute and I
Continually
Shall both apply
To sigh and moan.
What menethe this?
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
WHAT does this mean, when I lie alone?
I toss, I turn, I sigh, I groan;
My bed seems near as hard as stone:
What means this?
I sigh, I plain continually;
The clothes that on my bed do lie,
Always, methinks, they lie awry;
What means this?
In slumbers oft for fear I quake;
For heat and cold I burn and shake;
For lack of sleep my head doth ache;
What means this?
At mornings then when I do rise,
I turn unto my wonted guise,
All day thereafter, muse and devise;
What means this?
And if perchance by me there pass,
She, unto whom I sue for grace,
The cold blood forsaketh my face;
What means this?
But if I sit with her nearby,
With a loud voice my heart doth cry,
And yet my mouth is dumb and dry;
What means this?
To ask for help, no heart I have;
My tongue doth fail what I should crave;
Yet inwardly I rage and rave;
What means this?
Thus I have passed many a year,
And many a day, though nought appear,
But most of that which I most I fear;
What means this?
Yet ons I was
by Sir Thomas Wyatt, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once in your grace I know I was,
Even as well as now is he;
Though Fortune hath so turned my case
That I am down and he full high;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that did you please
So well that nothing did I doubt,
And though today ye think it ease
To take him in and throw me out;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he, in times past.
That as your own ye did retain:
And though ye have me now out-cast,
Showing untruth in you to reign;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that knit the knot
The which ye swore not to unknit,
And though ye feign it now forgot,
In using your newfangled wit;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye said,
“Welcome, my joy, my whole delight!”
And though ye are now well repaid
Of me, your own, your claim seems slight;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he to whom ye spake,
“Have here my heart! It is thy own.”
And though these words ye now forsake,
Saying thereof my part is none;
Yet once I was.
Once I was he that led the cast,
But now am he that must needs die.
And though I die, yet, at the last,
In your remembrance let it lie,
That once I was.
“Stafell Gynddylan” (“The Hall of Cynddylan”) belongs to the cycle of Welsh englynion (three-line stanzas) traditionally called “Canu Heledd” (“The Song of Heledd”).
The Welsh “dd” is pronounced “th.”
Cynddylan is pronounced KahN-THIHL-aeN.
Stafell Gynddylan (“The Hall of Cynddylan”)
Welsh englynion circa 1382-1410
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire and a bed,
I will weep awhile then lapse into silence.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire or a candle,
save God, who will preserve my sanity?
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking light,
grief for you overwhelms me!
The hall of Cynddylan’s roof is dark.
After the blessed assembly,
still little the good that comes of it.
Hall of Cynddylan, you have become shapeless, amorphous.
Your shield lies in the grave.
While he lived, no one breached these gates.
The hall of Cynddylan mourns tonight,
mourns for its lost protector.
Alas death, why did you spare me?
The hall of Cynddylan trembles tonight,
atop the shivering rock,
lacking lord, lacking liege, lacking protector.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking mirth, lacking songs.
My cheeks are eroded by tears.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight.
Lacking fire, lacking heroes, lacking a warband.
Abundant, my tears’ rains.
The hall of Cynddylan offends my eyes,
lacking roof, lacking fire.
My lord lies dead, and yet I still live?
The hall of Cynddylan lies shattered tonight,
without her steadfast warriors,
Elfan, and gold-torqued Cynddylan.
The hall of Cynddylan lies desolate tonight,
no longer respected
without the men and women who maintained it.
The hall of Cynddylan lies quiet tonight,
stunned to silence by losing its lord.
Merciful God, what must I do?
The hall of Cynddylan’s roof is dark,
after the Saxons destroyed
shining Cynddylan and Elfan of Powys.
The hall of Cynddylan lies dark tonight:
lost, the race of the Cyndrwyn,
of Cynon and Gwion and Gwyn.
Hall of Cynddylan, you wound me, hourly,
having lost that great company
who once warmed hands at your hearth.
EARLY ENGLISH RHYMING POEMS
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!
A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!
Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!
The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.
Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.
Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …
Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.
My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.
I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.
But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.
The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.
So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.
When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.
Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets)
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”
in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! …
how the fear of Death dismays me!
there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”
Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!
Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!
The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots …
Sing merrily, cuckoo!
Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!
The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.
The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.
The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.
I Have a Noble C-ck
circa early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have a gentle c-ck
who crows in the day;
he bids me rise early,
my matins to say.
I have a gentle c-ck,
he comes with the great;
his comb is of red coral,
his tail of jet.
I have a gentle c-ck,
kind and laconic;
his comb is of red coral,
his tail of onyx.
His legs are pale azure,
so gentle and so slender;
his spurs are silver-white,
so pretty and so tender!
His eyes are like fine crystal
set deep in golden amber,
and every night he perches
in my lady’s chamber.
Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.
See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.
How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.
Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!
JAMES RYMAN
Farewell Advent!
by James Ryman
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Please note that “all and some” means “one and all.”
Farewell, Advent; Christmas has come;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
With patience thou hast us fed
Yet made us go hungry to bed;
For lack of meat, we were nigh dead;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
When you came, hasty, to our house,
We ate no puddings, no, nor souce, [pickled pork]
But stinking fish not worth a louse;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
There was no fresh fish, far nor near;
Salt fish and salmon were too dear,
And thus we’ve had but heavy cheer;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou hast fed us with servings thin,
Nothing on them but bone and skin;
Therefore our love thou shalt not win;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
With mussels gaping after the moon
Thou hast fed us, at night and noon,
But once a week, and that too soon;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Our bread was brown, our ale was thin;
Our bread was musty in the bin;
Our ale was sour, or we’d dive in;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou art of great ingratitude,
Good meat from us, for to exclude;
Thou art not kind but very rude;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou dwellest with us against our will,
And yet thou gavest us not our fill;
For lack of meat thou would’st us spill;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Above all things thou art most mean
To make our cheeks both bare and lean;
I would thou were at Boughton Bleane!
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Come thou no more, here, nor in Kent,
For, if thou dost, thou shalt be shent; [reviled, shamed, reproached]
It is enough to fast in Lent;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with heaven’s estate;
Therefore with us thou playest checkmate;
Go hence, or we will break thy pate!
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with knight nor squire;
For them thou mayest lie in the mire;
They love not thee, nor Lent, thy sire;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thou mayest not dwell with laboring man,
For on thy fare no skill can he fan,
For he must eat every now and then;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Thus thou must dwell with monk and friar,
Canon and nun, once every year,
Yet thou shouldest make us better cheer;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
This time of Christ’s feast natal,
We will be merry, great and small,
While thou (haste!) exit from this hall;
Farewell from us, both all and some.
Advent is gone; Christmas is come;
Now we are merry, all and some;
He is not wise that will be dumb;
In ortu Regis omnium. [At the birth of the King of all.]
JOHN AUDELAY
Dread of Death (excerpts)
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lady, help! Jesu, mercy!
Timor mortis conturbat me. [The fear of death dismays me.]
Dread of death, sorrow for sin,
Trouble my heart, full grievously:
My soul wars with my lust then.
Passio Christi conforta me. [Passion of Christ, strengthen me.]
As I lay sick in my languor,
With sorrow of heart and teary eye,
This carol I made with great dolor:
Passio Christi conforta me.
A Carol for Saint Francis
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I pray you, sirs, for charity,
Please read this carol reverently,
For I made it with a tearful eye:
Your brother John the Blind Awdley.
Saint Francis, to thee I say,
Save thy brethren both night and day!
The Three Living and the Three Dead Kings
by John Audelay
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Then the last king speaks; he looks at the hills;
Looks under his hands and holds his head;
But a dreadful blow coldly pierces his heart,
Like the knife or the key that chills the knuckle.
These are the three demons who stalk these hills;
May our Lord, who rules all, show us the quickest exit!
My heart bends with fright like a windblown reed,
Each finger trembles and grows weak with terror.
I'm forced to fear our fate;
therefore, let us flee, quickly!
I can offer no counsel but flight.
These devils make us cower,
For fear they will block our escape.
LAURENCE MINOT
Les Espagnols-sur-mer
by Laurence Minot
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I would not spare to speak, if I wished success,
of strong men with weapons in worthy armor,
who were driven to deeds and now lie dead.
Who sailed the seas, fishes to feed.
Fell fishes they feed now, for all their vaunting fanfare;
for it was with the waning of the moon that they came there.
They sailed forth into perils on a summer’s tide,
with trumpets and tabors and exalted pride. …
When they sailed westward, although they were mighty in war,
their bulwarks, their anchors were of no avail.
For mighty men of the west drew nearer and nearer
and they stumbled into the snare, because they had no fear.
For those who fail to flee become prey in the end
and those who once plundered, perish.
On the Siege of Calais, 1436
by Laurence Minot, possibly
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On the 19th of July, 1436, the Duke of Burgundy laid siege to the city of Calais, but was forced to lift the siege just six days later.
The next morrow, while it was day,
Early, the Duke fled away,
And with him, they off Ghent.
For after Bruges and Apres both
To follow after they were not loath;
Thus they made their departure.
For they had knowledge
Of the Duke of Gloucester’s coming,
Calais to rescue.
Because they bode not there,
In Flanders, he sought them far and near,
That ever after they might rue it.
Exeter Book Gnomic Verses or Maxims
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The dragon dwells under the dolmen,
wizened-wise, hoarding his treasure;
the fishes bring forth their finned kind;
the king in his halls distributes rings;
the bear stalks the heath, shaggy and malevolent.
Frost shall freeze,
fire feast on firs;
earth breed blizzards;
brazen ice bridge waters;
waters spawn shields;
oxen axe
frost’s firm fetters,
freeing golden grain
from ice’s imprisonment.
Winter shall wane,
warm weather return
as sun-warmed summer!
Kings shall win
wise queens with largesse,
with beakers and bracelets;
both must be
generous with their gifts.
Courage must create
war-lust in a lord
while his woman shows
kindness to her people,
delightful in dress,
interpreter of rune-words,
roomy-hearted
at hearth-sharing and horse-giving.
The deepest depths
hold seas’ secrets the longest.
The ship must be neatly nailed,
the hull framed
from light linden.
But how loving
the Frisian wife’s welcome
when, floating offshore,
the keel turns homeward!
She hymns homeward
her own husband,
till his hull lies at anchor!
Then she washes salt-stains
from his stiff shirt,
lays out new clothes
clean and fresh
for her exhausted sailor,
her beloved bread-winner,
love’s needs well-met.
THE WANDERER
In Anglo-Saxon poems like “The Ruin” and “The Wanderer” the Wyrdes function like the Fates of ancient Greek mythology, controlling men’s destinies.
The Wanderer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“The one who wanders alone
longs for mercy, longs for grace,
knowing he must yet traverse
the whale-path’s rime-cold waters,
stirring the waves with his hands & oars,
heartsick & troubled in spirit,
always bending his back to his exile-ways.”
“Fate is inexorable.”
Thus spoke the wanderer, the ancient earth-roamer
mindful of life’s hardships,
of its cruel slaughters & deaths of dear kinsmen.
“Often I am driven, departing alone at daybreak,
to give my griefs utterance,
the muffled songs of a sick heart
sung to no listeners, to no living lord,
for now there are none left alive
to debate my innermost doubts.
Custom considers it noble indeed for a man
to harbor his thought-hoard,
keep it close to his chest,
slam the doors of his doubts shut,
bind sorrow to silence & be still.
But the weary-minded man cannot withstand Wyrdes,
nor may his shipwrecked heart welcome solace, nor any hope of healing.
Therefore those eager for fame often bind dark thoughts
& unwailed woes in their breast-coffers.
Thus, miserably sad, overcome by cares & separated from my homeland,
far from my noble kinsmen, I was forced to bind my thoughts with iron fetters,
to confine my breast-hoard to its cage of bone.
Long ago the dark earth covered my gold-lord & I was left alone,
winter-weary & wretched, to cross these winding waves friendless.
Saddened, I sought the hall of some new gold-giver,
someone who might take heed of me, welcome me,
hoping to find some friendly mead-hall
offering comfort to men left friendless by Fate.
Anyone left lordless, kinless & friendless
knows how bitter-cruel life becomes
to one bereft of protectors,
pale sorrows his only companions.
No one waits to welcome the wanderer!
His only rewards, cold nights & the frigid sea.
Only exile-paths await him,
not torques of twisted gold,
warm hearths & his lord’s trust.
Only cold hearts’ frozen feelings, not earthly glory.
Then he longingly remembers retainers, feasts & the receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his gold-friend recognized him at the table.
But now all pleasure has vanished & his dreams taste like dust!
The wanderer knows what it means to do without:
without the wise counsels of his beloved lord, kinsmen & friends.
The lone outcast, wandering the headlands alone,
where solitariness & sorrow sleep together!
Then the wretched solitary vagabond
remembers in his heart how he embraced & kissed his lord
& laid his hands & head upon his knee,
in those former days of grace at the gift-stool.
But the wanderer always awakes without friends.
Awakening, the friendless man confronts the murky waves,
the seabirds bathing, broadening out their feathers,
the hoar-frost, harrowing hail & snow eternally falling…
Then his heart’s wounds seem all the heavier for the loss of his beloved lord.
Thus his sorrow is renewed,
remembrance of his lost kinsmen troubles his mind,
& he greets their ghosts with exclamations of joy, but they merely swim away.
The floating ones never tarry.
Thus care is renewed for the one whose weary spirit rides the waves.
Therefore I cannot think why, surveying this world,
my mind should not contemplate its darkness.
When I consider the lives of earls & their retainers,
how at a stroke they departed their halls, those mood-proud thanes!,
then I see how this middle-earth fails & falls, day after day…
Therefore no man becomes wise without his share of winters.
A wise man must be patient,
not hot-hearted, nor over-eager to speak,
nor weak-willed in battles & yet not reckless,
not unwitting nor wanting in forethought,
nor too greedy for gold & goods,
nor too fearful, nor too cheerful,
nor too hot, nor too mild,
nor too eager to boast before he’s thought things through.
A wise man forbears boastmaking
until, stout-hearted, his mind sure & his will strong,
he can read the road where his travels & travails take him.
The wise man grasps how ghastly life will be
when all the world’s wealth becomes waste,
even as middle-earth already is, in so many places
where walls stand weather-beaten by the wind,
crusted with cold rime, ruined dwellings snowbound,
wine-halls crumbling, their dead lords deprived of joy,
the once-hale host all perished beyond the walls.
Some war took, carried them off from their courses;
a bird bore one across the salt sea;
another the gray wolf delivered to Death;
one a sallow-cheeked earl buried in a bleak barrow.
Thus mankind’s Maker laid waste to Middle Earth,
until the works of the giants stood idle,
all eerily silenced, the former joys of their halls.”
The wise man contemplates these ruins,
considers this dark life soberly,
remembers the blood spilled here
in multitudes of battles,
then says:
“Where is the horse now? Where, its riders?
Where, the givers of gifts & treasure, the gold-friend?
Where, the banquet-seats? Where, the mead-halls’ friendly uproars?
Gone, the bright cup! Gone, the mailed warrior!
Gone, the glory of princes! Time has slipped down
the night-dome, as if it never were!
Now all that remains is this wall, wondrous-high,
decorated with strange serpentine shapes,
these unreadable wormlike runes!
The strength of spears defeated the earls,
lances lusting for slaughter, some glorious victory!
Now storms rage against these rock-cliffs,
as swirling snows & sleet entomb the earth,
while wild winter howls its wrath
as the pale night-shadow descends.
The frigid north sends hailstones to harry warriors.
Hardships & struggles beset the children of men.
The shape of fate is twisted under the heavens
as the Wyrdes decree.
Life is on loan, wealth transitory, friendships fleeting,
man himself fleeting, everything transitory,
& earth’s entire foundation stands empty.”
Thus spoke the wanderer, wise-hearted, as he sat apart in thought.
Good is the man who keeps his word to the end.
Nor should a man manifest his breast-pangs before he knows their cure,
how to accomplish the remedy with courage.
The Dream of the Rood
anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa the tenth century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Listen! A dream descended upon me at deep midnight
when sleepers have sought their beds and sweet rest:
the dream of dreams, I declare it!
It seemed I saw the most wondrous tree,
raised heaven-high, wound ’round with light,
with beams of the brightest wood. A beacon
covered in overlapping gold and precious gems,
it stood fair at the earth's foot, with five gemstones
brightening its cross-beam. All heaven’s angels
beheld it with wonder, for it was no felon's gallows…
Beowulf
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 8th-10th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
LO, praise the prowess of the Spear-Danes
whose clan-thanes ruled in days bygone,
possessed of dauntless courage and valor.
All have heard the honors the athelings won,
of Scyld Scefing, scourge of rebellious tribes,
wrecker of mead-benches, harrier of warriors,
awer of earls. He had come from afar,
first friendless, a foundling, till Fate intervened:
for he waxed under the welkin and persevered,
until folk, far and wide, on all coasts of the whale-path,
were forced to yield to him, bring him tribute.
A good king!
To him an heir was afterwards born,
a lad in his yards, a son in his halls,
sent by heaven to comfort the folk.
Knowing they'd lacked an earl a long while,
the Lord of Life, the Almighty, made him far-renowned.
Beowulf’s fame flew far throughout the north,
the boast of him, this son of Scyld,
through Scandian lands.
…
Grendel was known of in Geatland, far-asea,
the horror of him.
…
Beowulf bade a seaworthy wave-cutter
be readied to bear him to Heorot,
over the swan's riding,
to defense of that good king, Hrothgar.
Wise men tried to dissuade him
because they held Beowulf dear,
but their warnings only whetted his war-lust.
Yet still he pondered the omens.
The resolute prince handpicked his men,
the fiercest of his folk, to assist him:
fourteen men sea-wise, stout-hearted,
battle-tested. Led them to the land's edge.
Hardened warriors hauled bright mail-coats,
well-wrought war gear, to the foot of her mast.
At high tide she rode the waves, hard in by headland,
as they waved their last farewells, then departed.
Away she broke like a sea-bird, skimming the waves,
wind-borne, her curved prow plowing the ocean,
till on the second day the skyline of Geatland loomed.
…
The Finnesburg Fragment or The Fight at Finnsburg
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 10th-11th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Battle-bred Hnaef broke the silence:
"Are the eaves aflame, is there dawn in the east,
are there dragons aloft? No, only the flares of torches
borne on the night breeze. Evil is afoot. Soon the hoots of owls,
the weird wolf's howls, cries of the carrion crows, the arrow's screams,
and the shield's reply to the lance's shaft, shall be heard.
Heed the omens of the moon, that welkin-wanderer.
We shall soon feel in full this folk's fury for us.
Shake yourselves awake, soldiers! On your feet!
Who's with me? Grab your swords and shields. Loft your linden!"
The Battle of Brunanburh or The Battle of Brunanburgh
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 937 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her Aethelstan cyning, / Aethelstan the King,
eorla dryhten, / Lord over earls,
beorna beag-giefa, / bracelet-bestower,
and his brothor eac, / and with him his brother,
Eadmund aetheling, / Edmund the Atheling,
ealdor-lange tir / earned unending glory:
geslogon aet saecce / glory they gained in battle
sweorda ecgum / as they slew with the sword's edge
ymbe Brunanburh. / many near Brunanburgh…
The Battle of Maldon
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 991 AD or later
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
…would be broken.
Then he bade each warrior unbridle his horse,
set it free, drive it away and advance onward afoot,
intent on deeds of arms and dauntless courage.
It was then that Offa's kinsman kenned
their Earl would not accept cowardice,
for he set his beloved falcon free, let it fly woods-ward,
then stepped forward to battle himself, nothing withheld.
By this his men understood their young Earl's will full well,
that he would not weaken when taking up weapons.
Eadric desired to serve his Earl,
his Captain in the battle to come; thus he also advanced forward,
his spear raised, his spirit strong,
boldly grasping buckler and broadsword,
ready to keep his vow to stand fast in the fight.
Byrhtnoth marshalled his men,
teaching each warrior his task:
how to stand, where to be stationed…
Widsith, the Far-Traveler
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 680-950 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Widsith the wide-wanderer began to speak,
unlocked his word-hoard, manifested his memories,
he who had travelled earth's roads furthest
among the races of men—their tribes, peoples and lands.
He had often prospered in the mead-halls,
competing for precious stones with his tale-trove.
His ancestors hailed from among the Myrgings,
whence his lineage sprung, a scion of Ealhhild,
the fair peace-weaver. On his first journey, east of the Angles,
he had sought out the home of Eormanric,
the angry oath-breaker and betrayer of men.
Widsith, rich in recollections, began to share his wisdom thus:
I have learned much from mighty men, their tribes' mages,
and every prince must live according to his people's customs,
acting honorably, if he wishes to prosper upon his throne.
Hwala was the best, for awhile,
Alexander the mightiest, beyond compare,
his empire the most prosperous and powerful of all,
among all the races of men, as far as I have heard tell.
Attila ruled the Huns, Eormanric the Goths,
Becca the Banings, Gifica the Burgundians,
Caesar the Greeks, Caelic the Finns,
Hagena the Holmrigs, Heoden the Glomms,
Witta the Swæfings, Wada the Hælsings,
Meaca the Myrgings, Mearchealf the Hundings,
Theodric the Franks, Thyle the Rondings,
Breoca the Brondings, Billing the Wærns,
Oswine the Eowan, Gefwulf the Jutes,
Finn Folcwalding the Frisians,
Sigehere ruled the Sea-Danes for decades,
Hnæf the Hockings, Helm the Wulfings,
Wald the Woings, Wod the Thuringians,
Sæferth the Secgan, Ongendtheow the Swedes,
Sceafthere the Ymbers, Sceafa the Lombards,
Hun the Hætwera, Holen the Wrosnas,
Hringweald was king of the Herefara.
Offa ruled the Angles, Alewih the Danes,
the bravest and boldest of men,
yet he never outdid Offa.
For Offa, while still a boy, won in battle the broadest of kingdoms.
No one as young was ever a worthier Earl!
With his stout sword he struck the boundary of the Myrgings,
fixed it at Fifeldor, where afterwards the Angles and Swæfings held it.
Hrothulf and Hrothgar, uncle and nephew,
for a long time kept a careful peace together
after they had driven away the Vikings' kinsmen,
vanquished Ingeld's spear-hordes,
and hewed down at Heorot the host of the Heathobards.
Thus I have traveled among many foreign lands,
crossing the earth's breadth,
experiencing both goodness and wickedness,
cut off from my kinsfolk, far from my family.
Thus I can speak and sing these tidings in the mead-halls,
of how how I was received by the most excellent kings.
Many were magnanimous to me!
I was among the Huns and the glorious Ostrogoths,
among the Swedes, the Geats, and the South-Danes,
among the Vandals, the Wærnas, and the Vikings,
among the Gefthas, the Wends, and the Gefflas,
among the Angles, the Swabians, and the Ænenas,
among the Saxons, the Secgan, and the Swordsmen,
among the Hronas, the Danes, and the Heathoreams,
among the Thuringians and the Throndheims,
also among the Burgundians, where I received an arm-ring;
Guthhere gave me a gleaming gem in return for my song.
He was no gem-hoarding king, slow to give!
I was among the Franks, the Frisians, and the Frumtings,
among the Rugas, the Glomms, and the Romans.
I was likewise in Italy with Ælfwine,
who had, as I'd heard, commendable hands,
fast to reward fame-winning deeds,
a generous sharer of rings and torques,
the noble son of Eadwine.
I was among the Saracens and also the Serings,
among the Greeks, the Finns, and also with Caesar,
the ruler of wine-rich cities and formidable fortresses,
of riches and rings and Roman domains.
He also controlled the kingdom of Wales.
I was among the Scots, the Picts and the Scrid-Finns,
among the Leons and Bretons and Lombards,
among the heathens and heroes and Huns,
among the Israelites and Assyrians,
among the Hebrews and Jews and Egyptians,
among the Medes and Persians and Myrgings,
and with the Mofdings against the Myrgings,
among the Amothings and the East-Thuringians,
among the Eolas, the Ista and the Idumings.
I was also with Eormanric for many years,
as long as the Goth-King availed me well,
that ruler of cities, who gave me gifts:
six hundred shillings of pure gold
beaten into a beautiful neck-ring!
This I gave to Eadgils, overlord of the Myrgings
and my keeper-protector, when I returned home,
a precious adornment for my beloved prince,
after which he awarded me my father's estates.
Ealhhild gave me another gift,
that shining lady, that majestic queen,
the glorious daughter of Eadwine.
I sang her praises in many lands,
lauded her name, increased her fame,
the fairest of all beneath the heavens,
that gold-adorned queen, glad gift-sharer!
Later, Scilling and I created a song for our war-lord,
my shining speech swelling to the sound of his harp,
our voices in unison, so that many hardened men, too proud for tears,
called it the most moving song they'd ever heard.
Afterwards I wandered the Goths' homelands,
always seeking the halest and heartiest companions,
such as could be found within Eormanric's horde.
I sought Hethca, Beadeca and the Herelings,
Emerca, Fridlal and the Ostrogoths,
even the wise father of Unwen.
I sought Secca and Becca, Seafola and Theodric,
Heathoric and Sifeca, Hlithe and Ongentheow,
Eadwine and Elsa, Ægelmund and Hungar,
even the brave band of the Broad-Myrgings.
I sought Wulfhere and Wyrmhere where war seldom slackened,
when the forces of Hræda with hard-striking swords
had to defend their imperiled homestead
in the Wistla woods against Attila's hordes.
I sought Rædhere, Rondhere, Rumstan and Gislhere,
Withergield and Freotheric, Wudga and Hama,
never the worst companions although I named them last.
Often from this band flew shrill-whistling wooden shafts,
shrieking spears from this ferocious nation,
felling enemies because they wielded the wound gold,
those good leaders, Wudga and Hama.
Thus I have always found this to be true in my far-venturing:
that the dearest man among earth-dwellers
is the one God gives to rule ably over others.
But the makar's weird is to be a wanderer. [maker's/minstrel's fate]
The minstrel travels far, from land to land,
singing his needs, speaking his grateful thanks,
whether in the sunny southlands or the frigid northlands,
measuring out his word-hoard to those unstingy of gifts,
to those rare elect rulers who understand art's effect on the multitudes,
to those open-handed lords who would have their fame spread,
via a new praise-verse, thus earning enduring reputations
under the heavens.
Lent is Come with Love to Town
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1330
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Springtime comes with love to town,
With blossoms and with birdsong ’round,
Bringing all this bliss:
Daisies in the dales,
Sweet notes of nightingales.
Each bird contributes songs;
The thrush chides ancient wrongs.
Departed, winter’s glowers;
The woodruff gayly flowers;
The birds create great noise
And warble of their joys,
Making all the woodlands ring!
“Blow, northerne wind”
anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blow, northern wind,
Send my love, my sweeting,
Blow, northern wind,
Blow, blow, blow,
Our love completing!
“What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who is he, this lordling, who staggers from the fight,
with blood-red garb so grisly arrayed,
once appareled in lineaments white?
Once so seemly in sight?
Once so valiant a knight?
“It is I, it is I, who alone speaks right,
a champion to heal mankind in this fight.”
Why then are your clothes a bloody mess,
like one who has trod a winepress?
“I trod the winepress alone,
else mankind was done.”
“Thou wommon boute fere”
by William Herebert, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Woman without compare,
you bore your own father:
great the wonder
that one woman was mother
to her father and brother,
as no one else ever was.
“Marye, maide, milde and fre”
by William of Shoreham, circa early 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mary, maid, mild and free,
Chamber of the Trinity,
This while, listen to me,
As I greet you with a song …
“My sang es in sihting”
by Richard Rolle, circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My song is in sighing,
My life is in longing,
Till I see thee, my King,
So fair in thy shining,
So fair in thy beauty,
Leading me into your light …
A hymn to Jesus
by Richard of Caistre, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Jesu, Lord that madest me
and with thy blessed blood hath bought,
forgive that I have grieved thee,
in word, work, will and thought.
Jesu, for thy wounds’ hurt
of body, feet and hands too,
make me meek and low in heart,
and thee to love, as I should do…
In Praise of his Ugly Lady
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Of my lady? Well rejoice, I may!
Her golden forehead is full narrow and small;
Her brows are like dim, reed coral;
And her jet-black eyes glisten, aye.
Her bulging cheeks are soft as clay
with large jowls and substantial.
Her nose, an overhanging shady wall:
no rain in that mouth on a stormy day!
Her mouth is nothing scant with lips gray;
Her chin can scarcely be seen at all.
Her comely body is shaped like a football,
and she sings like a cawing jay.
Lament for Chaucer
by Thomas Hoccleve, early 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, my worthy master, honorable,
The very treasure and riches of this land!
Death, by your death, has done irreparable
harm to us: her cruel and vengeful hand
has robbed our country of sweet rhetoric…
Holly and Ivy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nay! Ivy, nay!
It shall not be, like this:
Let Holy have the mastery,
As the manner is.
Holy stood in the hall
Fair to behold;
Ivy stood outside the door,
Lonely and cold.
Holy and his merry men
Commenced to dance and sing;
Ivy and her maidens
Were left outside to weep and wring.
Ivy has a chilblain,
She caught it with the cold.
So must they all have, aye,
Whom with Ivy hold.
Holly has berries
As red as any rose:
The foresters and hunters
Keep them from the does.
Ivy has berries
As black as any ill:
There comes the owl
To eat them as she will.
Holly has birds,
A full fair flock:
The nightingale, the popinjay,
The gentle lark.
Good Ivy, good Ivy,
What birds cling to you?
None but the owl
Who cries, "Who? Who?'
Unkindness Has Killed Me
anonymous Middle English poem, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Grievous is my sorrow:
Both evening and morrow;
Unto myself alone
Thus do I moan,
That unkindness has killed me
And put me to this pain.
Alas! what remedy
That I cannot refrain?
from The Testament of John Lydgate
15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold, o man! lift up your eyes and see
What mortal pain I suffer for your trespass.
With piteous voice I cry and say to thee:
Behold my wounds, behold my bloody face,
Behold the rebukes that do me such menace,
Behold my enemies that do me so despise,
And how that I, to reform thee to grace,
Was like a lamb offered in sacrifice.
Vox ultima Crucis
from The Testament of John Lydgate, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
TARRY no longer; toward thine heritage
Haste on thy way, and be of right good cheer.
Go each day onward on thy pilgrimage;
Think how short a time thou hast abided here.
Thy place is built above the stars clear,
No earthly palace wrought in such stately wise.
Come on, my friend, my brother must enter!
For thee I offered my blood in sacrifice.
Inordinate Love
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I shall say what inordinate love is:
The ferocity and singleness of mind,
An inextinguishable burning devoid of bliss,
A great hunger, too insatiable to decline,
A dulcet ill, an evil sweetness, blind,
A right wonderful, sugared, sweet error,
Without any rest, contrary to kind,
Without quiet, a riot of useless labor.
Besse Bunting
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In April and May
When hearts be all a-merry,
Bessie Bunting, the miller’s girl,
With lips as red as cherries,
Cast aside remembrance
To pass her time in dalliance
And leave her misery to chance.
Right womanly arrayed
In petticoats of white,
She was undismayed
And her countenance was light.
The spring under a thorn
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At a wellspring, under a thorn,
the remedy for an ill was born.
There stood beside a maid
Full of love bound,
And whoso seeks true love,
In her it will be found.
The Complaint of Cresseid against Fate
Robert Henryson, 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O sop of sorrow, sunken into care,
O wretched Cresseid, now and evermore
Gone is thy joy and all thy mirth on earth!
Stripped bare of blitheness and happiness,
No salve can save you from your sickness.
Fell is thy fortune, wicked thy fate.
All bliss banished and sorrow in bloom.
Would that I were buried under the earth
Where no one in Greece or Troy might hear it!
A lover left alone with his thoughts
anonymous Middle English poem, circa later 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Continuance
of remembrance,
without ending,
causes me penance
and great grievance,
for your parting.
You are so deeply
engraved in my heart,
God only knows
that always before me
I ever see you
in thoughts covert.
Though I do not explain
my woeful pain,
I bear it still,
although it seems vain
to speak against
Fortune’s will.
Go, hert, hurt with adversity
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Go, heart, hurt with adversity,
and let my lady see thy wounds,
then say to her, as I say to thee:
“Farewell, my joy, and welcome pain,
till I see my lady again.”
I love a flower
by Thomas Phillipps, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I love, I love, and whom love ye?”
“I love a flower of fresh beauty.”
“I love another as well as ye.”
“That shall be proved here, anon,
If we three
together can agree
thereon.”
“I love a flower of sweet odour.”
“Marigolds or lavender?”
“Columbine, golds of sweet flavor?”
“Nay! Nay! Let be:
It is none of them
that liketh me.”
(The argument continues…)
“I love the rose, both red and white.”
“Is that your perfect appetite?”
“To talk of them is my delight.”
“Joyed may we be,
our Prince to see
and roses three.”
“Now we have loved and love will we,
this fair, fresh flower, full of beauty.”
“Most worthy it is, so thinketh me.”
“Then may it be proved here, anon,
that we three
did agree
as one.”
The sleeper hood-winked
by John Skelton, circa late 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With “Lullay! Lullay!” like a child,
Thou sleepest too long, thou art beguiled.
“My darling dear, my daisy flower,”
let me, quoth he, “lie in your lap.”
“Lie still,” quoth she, “my paramour,
Lie still, of course, and take a nap.”
His head was heavy, such his hap!
All drowsy, dreaming, drowned in sleep,
That of his love he took no keep. [i.e., he paid no notice]
The Corpus Christi Carol
anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He bore him up, he bore him down,
He bore him into an orchard brown.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
In that orchard there stood a hall
Hanged all over with purple and pall.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that hall there stood a bed
hanged all over with gold so red.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And in that bed there lies a knight,
His wounds all bleeding both day and night.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
By that bed's side there kneels a maid,
And she weeps both night and day.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
And by that bedside stands a stone,
"Corpus Christi" written thereon.
Lully, lullay, lully, lullay!
The falcon has borne my mate away.
Love ever green
attributed to King Henry VIII, circa 1515
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If Henry VIII wrote the poem, he didn’t quite live up to it! – MRB
Green groweth the holly,
so doth the ivy.
Though winter’s blasts blow never so high,
green groweth the holly.
As the holly groweth green
and never changeth hue,
so am I, and ever have been,
unto my lady true.
Adew! Mine own lady.
Adew! My special.
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.
Pleasure it is
by William Cornish, early 16th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pleasure it is,
to her, indeed.
The birds sing;
the deer in the dale,
the sheep in the vale,
the new corn springing.
God’s allowance
for sustenance,
his gifts to man.
Thus we always give him praise
and thank him, then.
And thank him, then.
The Vision of Piers Plowman
by William Langland, circa 1330-1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In a summer season when the sun shone soft,
I clothed myself in a cloak like a shepherd’s,
In a habit like a hermit's unholy in works,
And went out into the wide world, wonders to hear.
Then on a May morning on Malvern hills,
A marvel befell me, of fairies, methought.
I was weary with wandering and went to rest
Under a broad bank, by a brook's side,
And as I lay, leaned over and looked on the waters,
I fell into a slumber, for it sounded so merry.
Soon I began to dream a marvellous dream:
That I was in a wilderness, I wist not where.
As I looked to the east, right into the sun,
I saw a tower on a knoll, worthily built,
With a deep dale beneath and a dungeon therein,
Full of deep, dark ditches and and dreadful to behold.
Then a fair field full of fond folk, I espied between,
Of all manner of men, both rich and poor,
Working and wandering, as the world demands.
Some put themselves to the plow, seldom playing,
But setting and sowing they sweated copiously
And won that which wasters destroyed by gluttony…
Pearl
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1400
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pearl, the pleasant prize of princes,
Chastely set in clear gold and cherished,
Out of the Orient, unequaled,
Precious jewel without peer,
So round, so rare, so radiant,
So small, so smooth, so seductive,
That whenever I judged glimmering gems,
I set her apart, unimpeachable, priceless.
Alas, I lost her in earth’s green grass!
Long I searched for her in vain!
Now I languish alone, my heart gone cold.
For I lost my precious pearl without stain.