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1. The Shipman’s Tale
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Here begins the Shipman’s Tale
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A merchant once there was at Saint-Denis,
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Whom men thought wise, for he was wealthy.
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A wife he had too, of excellent beauty,
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And sociable, and fond of fun was she –
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Which is a thing that causes more expense
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Than all the close attention and reverence
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Is worth, that they receive at feasts and dances.
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Such salutations and such countenances
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Pass as do the shadows on a wall.
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But woe to him then who must pay for all!
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The foolish husband always has to pay;
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He must clothe us and provide display,
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All for his own reputation, richly,
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Display amongst which we dance, jollily.
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And if he cannot pay, peradventure,
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Or else such expense will not endure,
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But thinks it wasted, and money lost,
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Then must another man pay our cost,
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Or lend us gold, and that is perilous.
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This noble merchant ran a worthy house,
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Because of which such crowds were always there,
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For his largess, and since his wife was fair,
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It was a wonder; hearken to my tale!
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Amongst his guests, the female and the male,
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There was a monk, a handsome man and bold –
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I guess he was but thirty winters old –
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And constantly attracted to the place.
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This young monk, who was so fine of face,
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Had become so friendly with the husband,
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Since their acquaintance first began,
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That he was welcomed as familiarly
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In his house, as any friend could be.
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And inasmuch as this good husband,
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And the monk whose tale I just began,
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Were both of them born in the same village,
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The monk would claim him as a relative,
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And he the same; he never said him nay,
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But was as glad of it as bird of day,
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For to his heart it was sweet circumstance,
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That thus they forged eternal alliance,
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And each of them the other did assure
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Of brotherhood while life should so endure.
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Free was monk John, and liberal of expense,
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When in that house, and full of diligence
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To do what pleases, and so pay his wages.
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He never forgot the lowliest of pages,
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In all that household, each in his degree
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He dowered, the lord and all his company,
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Whenever he came, with some generous thing.
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So that they were as glad at his arriving
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As the birds are when the new sun rises.
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No more of that for now, since it suffices.
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It so befell, this merchant one fine day
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Was readying all his travelling array,
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Towards the town of Bruges for to fare,
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To buy there a portion of his wares;
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And so to Paris he had sent anon
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A messenger, requesting of Sir John
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That he should come to Saint Denis, and stay
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With him and with his wife, beyond a day,
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Before he left for Bruges, as he must do.
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This noble monk, whom I describe to you,
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Won from his abbot, as requested, licence,
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Because he was a man of great prudence
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An abbey officer, appointed so to ride,
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To check the barns and granges, far and wide;
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And to Saint Denis came he anon.
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Who was as welcome as my lord Sir John,
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Our dear cousin, full of courtesy?
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With him he brought a jar of fine Malmsey,
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Another too, a white, Italian vintage,
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And wild-fowl as well, as was his usage.
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And so leave them to eat and drink and play,
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The merchant and the monk, the livelong day.
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On the third day, this merchant rises
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And of his duties sadly himself advises,
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And up into his counting-house goes he,
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To reckon up, himself, as it must be,
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How the year had gone with him, and stood,
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And how much he’d expended of his goods,
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And whether he’d made a profit or made none.
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His books, and bags of coin, many a one,
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He laid before him on his counting-board.
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Full rich was his treasure and his hoard,
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And so he kept the counter-door fast shut;
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And wished no man to come and interrupt
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His casting of the accounts, for some time.
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And so he sat there till well after prime.
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Sir John had risen in the morn also,
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And walked about the garden to and fro,
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While making his devotions all devoutly.
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The good wife came walking covertly
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Into the garden where he wandered softly,
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And saluted him, as she had frequently.
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A maid child came with her for company,
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Whom she might govern as she pleased,
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For yet under the rod was the maid.
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‘O dear cousin mine, Sir John,’ she said,
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‘What ails you, so early do you rise?’
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‘Niece,’ quoth he, ‘really it should suffice
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For me to sleep five hours of a night,
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Except I were some old enfeebled fright,
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As are those married men, who cower there,
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As in a form might sit a weary hare
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Tormented by the hounds in the vale.
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But dear niece, why are you so pale?
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I might guess, for sure, that our good man
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Had laboured with you so, since night began,
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That you have need of rest now, and swiftly.’
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And with these words he laughed right merrily,
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And with his own thoughts he waxed all red.
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The fair wife began to shake her head,
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And said thus: ‘Ah, God knows all,’ quoth she.
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Nay, cousin mine, it stands not so with me!
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For, by the God that gave me soul and life,
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In all the realm of France there is no wife
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That finds less pleasure in that sorry play;
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For I may sing “alas!” and “well-away
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That I was born!” but to no one’, quoth she
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‘Dare I tell how things truly stand with me.
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So that I think out of this land to wend,
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Or else of my own self to make an end,
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So full am I of fear and of care.’
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Hearing this, the monk began to stare,
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And said: ‘Alas, my niece, God forbid
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That you for any sorrow or for dread
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Should kill yourself; come, tell me all your grief.
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Peradventure I may give you some relief
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Or counsel in your trouble, so tell me
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All your problems, speak them privately.
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For on my breviary I swear an oath,
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That never in all my life, to friend or foe,
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Any secret of yours shall I betray.’
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‘The same again to you,’ quoth she, ‘I say.
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By God and by this breviary I swear,
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Though men me into pieces all would tear,
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That I shall never, may I go to Hell,
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Betray a single word to me you tell,
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Not for our kinship, no, nor alliance,
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But truly out of love and affiance.’
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So were they sworn, and thereupon they kissed,
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And each told the other what they wished.
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‘Cousin,’ quoth she, ‘if that I had a space
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Of time – as I have not, here in this place –
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Then would I tell the story of my life,
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How I have suffered since I was a wife
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With my husband, though he is your cousin.’
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‘Nay,’ quoth the monk, ‘by God and Saint Martin,
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He is no more a cousin unto me
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Than is this leaf hanging from the tree!
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I call him so, by Saint Denis of France,
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To have better reason for acquaintance
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With you, whom I love, especially,
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Above all women, and so most deeply;
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This I swear to you, by my profession.
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Tell me your grief, give it full expression,
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Lest he come: quick, then go your way anon.’
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‘My dear love,’ quoth she, ‘O my Sir John,
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It were better this secret for to hide,
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But it must out; it may no more abide.
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My husband is to me the vilest man
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There ever was since the world began!
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But since I’m his wife, it befits not me
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Ever to compromise our privacy,
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Neither in bed nor any other place.
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God forbid I should tell, by His grace!
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A wife should not speak about her husband
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Except in honour, as I well understand.
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But to tell you this much, well I shall:
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So help me God he is worth naught at all,
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Not even, I say, the value of a flea.
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But what grieves me most, he’s niggardly!
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And you know well, that women naturally
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Desire six things, indeed, like to me:
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They desire their husbands should be
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Brave, wise, and rich, and liberally free,
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Obedient to their wives, and fresh in bed.
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But by the same Lord that for us bled,
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For his honour, to dress in fine array,
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On Sunday next it’s necessary I pay
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A hundred francs, or else I die forlorn.
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Yet it were better I had not been born,
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Than be subject to slander or villainy.
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And if my husband aught of this should see,
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I’d be lost; and therefore you I pray,
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Lend me the sum, or I must die today.
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Sir John, I say, lend me this hundred francs;
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In faith, I will not fail of my thanks,
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If that you choose to do what I pray.
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For on the date you set I will repay,
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And do whatever pleasure and service
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I may do you, such as you shall request.
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And if I do not, God take on me vengeance,
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As foul as that earned by Ganelon of France!’
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The noble monk answered in this manner:
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‘Now truly, my own lady, and my dear,
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I have’ quoth he, ‘such pity for you, my oath
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I swear to you, and plight to you my troth
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That, when your husband does to Flanders fare,
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I will deliver you from all this care,
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For I will bring you the hundred francs.’
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And with these words he caught her by the flanks,
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And embraced her hard, and kissed her fiercely.
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‘Go now your way,’ quoth he, still and softly,
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‘And let us dine, soon as ever we may,
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For by my dial it’s past the prime of day.
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Go now, and be as true as I shall be.’
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‘God forbid it otherwise, sire,’ quoth she;
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And forth she went as pert as a magpie,
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And bade the cooks be swift, that by and by
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Men might sit and dine, and that anon.
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Off to her husband then the wife was gone,
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And knocked at his counting-house door boldly.
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‘Qui la?’ quoth he. ‘Why, Peter, it is me’
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Quoth she; ‘What, sire! How long now must you fast?
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How much longer reckon up and cast
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Your sums, and all your books and things?
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Devil take all such devilish reckonings!
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You have enough, in faith, from God’s own hand;
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Come down today, and let your coffers stand.
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Aren’t you ashamed now that our good Sir John
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Is fasting wretchedly all this day gone?
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What! Let’s hear a Mass, and go and dine.’
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‘Wife,’ quoth the man, ‘little can you divine
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The complicated business that we run;
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For of us merchants, God save all and one,
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And by the lord that is called Saint Ive,
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Scarcely two in every twelve may thrive
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Continually, and it last to our old age.
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We must ever show a cheerful visage,
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And seem to take the world as it will be,
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And veil our own affairs in secrecy,
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Till we are dead, or else we must go play
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At pilgrimage, or hide ourselves away,
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And therefore it’s a prime necessity
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For me to judge this strange world carefully.
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For evermore we must live in dread
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Of mishap and ill Fortune on our head.
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To Flanders shall I go tomorrow day,
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And then return as soon as ever I may.
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For which reason, wife, I do beseech,
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You to all men be courteous and meek,
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And, to guard our property, be zealous,
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And govern well and honestly our house.
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You have enough of all, in ever wise,
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That for a thrifty household should suffice.
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You lack nothing here in clothes or victuals;
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The silver in your purse too shall not fail.’
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And with that his counter-door he shut,
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And down he went then, with ready foot.
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Then and there a Mass was swiftly said,
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And speedily the tables all were spread;
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And to break their fast they quickly sped;
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And sumptuously this monk the merchant fed.
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After the dinner, Sir John, soberly,
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Took the merchant aside, and privately
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Spoke to him thus: ‘Cousin, it stands so,
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I see indeed to Bruges you mean to go.
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God and Augustine speed you then and guide!
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I pray you, be careful, cousin, how you ride;
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Govern yourself also, in your meat,
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Temperately, especially in this heat.
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Between us two need nothing formal fare.
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Farewell, cousin, and God shield you from care!
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And if there’s anything, by day or night,
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266
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That lies within my power and my might,
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267
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Which you command of me, in any wise,
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268
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It shall be done, just as you shall advise!
|
| |
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269
|
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One thing, before you go though, indulge me,
|
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270
|
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I wonder, now, if you might lend me
|
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271
|
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A hundred francs, for a week, since I
|
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272
|
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Have certain cattle that I must buy,
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273
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To stock a certain farm that is ours –
|
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274
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God help me so, I wish it were yours!
|
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275
|
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I must not fail to settle on the day,
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276
|
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Not if it were a thousand francs, I say.
|
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277
|
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But let this thing be hidden from the eye,
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278
|
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For yet tonight these creatures I must buy.
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279
|
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And now farewell, my own cousin dear;
|
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280
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Graunt merci for your loan and good cheer.’
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281
|
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The noble merchant courteously anon
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282
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Answered, saying: ‘O cousin mine, Sir John,
|
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283
|
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Now this is indeed but a small request!
|
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284
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My gold is yours to do as you think best,
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285
|
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And not only my gold but all my wares;
|
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286
|
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Take what you wish, don’t leave yourself spare!
|
| |
|
287
|
|
|
But one thing more, let me remind you now,
|
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288
|
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That, with merchants, our money is our plough.
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289
|
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We may have credit while we have a name,
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290
|
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But to lack gold, well that’s another game.
|
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291
|
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So pay it again when you can with ease;
|
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292
|
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In every way I can I wish to please.’
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| |
|
293
|
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The hundred francs he fetches forth anon,
|
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294
|
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|
And covertly conveys them to Sir John.
|
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295
|
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No one in all this world knows of the loan,
|
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296
|
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Save the merchant and Sir John alone.
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297
|
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They drink and speak, walk a while and play,
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298
|
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Till, to his abbey, Sir John rides away.
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| |
|
299
|
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The morrow comes, forth does the merchant ride
|
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300
|
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On Flanders road; his prentice as his guide
|
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301
|
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Until he reaches Bruges full merrily.
|
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302
|
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Now goes the merchant fast and busily
|
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303
|
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|
About his business, buys, and pays advances.
|
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304
|
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|
He neither plays at dice, there, nor dances,
|
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305
|
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But like a merchant, briefly for to tell,
|
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306
|
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|
He leads his life; and there I’ll leave him dwell.
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| |
|
307
|
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|
The very next Sunday after he’d gone,
|
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308
|
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|
To Saint-Denis returned the good Sir John,
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309
|
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With his beard and tonsure freshly shaved.
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310
|
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|
In all that household, from the littlest knave
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311
|
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To every other there, the joy was plain
|
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312
|
|
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At seeing my lord Sir John back there again.
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313
|
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And swiftly to the point right for to go,
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314
|
|
|
The fair wife settled with Sir John also
|
|
315
|
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|
That for the hundred francs he should all night
|
|
316
|
|
|
Hold her in his arms tight, till it was light.
|
|
317
|
|
|
And this accord was acted out in deed;
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318
|
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|
In mirth all night a busy life they lead
|
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319
|
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|
Till it is day, Sir John goes on his way,
|
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320
|
|
|
Bidding the household all: ‘Farewell, good day!’
|
|
321
|
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|
– For none of them, no person of that town,
|
|
322
|
|
|
Had of good Sir John the least suspicion.
|
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323
|
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|
And forth he rode and homeward to his abbey,
|
|
324
|
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|
Or where he pleased; no more of him from me.
|
| |
|
325
|
|
|
The merchant, when he’d finished his affairs,
|
|
326
|
|
|
To Saint Denis rides off, and there repairs;
|
|
327
|
|
|
And with his wife seeks feasting and good cheer,
|
|
328
|
|
|
Tells her the merchandise has proved so dear,
|
|
329
|
|
|
He must negotiate a fresh advance
|
|
330
|
|
|
For he is bound by a recognisance
|
|
331
|
|
|
To pay down twenty thousand crowns anon.
|
|
332
|
|
|
And so the merchant was to Paris gone,
|
|
333
|
|
|
To borrow from certain friends whom he had,
|
|
334
|
|
|
A sum of francs, to those he took to add.
|
|
335
|
|
|
And when that he was come unto the town,
|
|
336
|
|
|
Out of the love and the great affection
|
|
337
|
|
|
He had for Sir John, he went to him that day –
|
|
338
|
|
|
Not to ask gold of him, or borrow, say,
|
|
339
|
|
|
But to enquire there about his welfare,
|
|
340
|
|
|
And tell him of his merchandise and wares,
|
|
341
|
|
|
As friends do, when their friends are near.
|
|
342
|
|
|
John welcomed him with feast and merry cheer,
|
|
343
|
|
|
And he in turn described, with detailed tally,
|
|
344
|
|
|
What wares he’d bought, most successfully
|
|
345
|
|
|
Thanks be to God, and all fine merchandise;
|
|
346
|
|
|
Save that he must, in some manner of wise,
|
|
347
|
|
|
Obtain a loan, for all was of the best,
|
|
348
|
|
|
And joyfully thus set his mind at rest.
|
| |
|
349
|
|
|
Sir John replied: ‘Well then, I’ll say plain
|
|
350
|
|
|
It’s good that you’re in health, and home again.
|
|
351
|
|
|
And if I were rich, so may I have bliss,
|
|
352
|
|
|
Twenty thousand crowns I’d never miss,
|
|
353
|
|
|
In loans to you, since kindly, the other day,
|
|
354
|
|
|
You lent me gold; and as I can and may
|
|
355
|
|
|
I thank you by God and by Saint James!
|
|
356
|
|
|
Yet nonetheless, I say, I took our dame,
|
|
357
|
|
|
Your wife at home, the same amount again,
|
|
358
|
|
|
Paid on your bench; by certain tokens plain
|
|
359
|
|
|
I could tell you of, she’ll know it well.
|
|
360
|
|
|
Now, by your leave, I may no longer dwell
|
|
361
|
|
|
Upon the matter, our abbot travels anon,
|
|
362
|
|
|
And in his company I must be gone.
|
|
363
|
|
|
Greet our dame for me, my own niece sweet,
|
|
364
|
|
|
And fare thee well, dear cousin, till we meet!’
|
| |
|
365
|
|
|
The merchant, prudent in affairs like this,
|
|
366
|
|
|
Borrowing money, now paid out in Paris
|
|
367
|
|
|
To certain Lombards, placed it in their hands,
|
|
368
|
|
|
The sum of gold, received his bond as planned,
|
|
369
|
|
|
And home he went, merry as a popinjay,
|
|
370
|
|
|
For he knew he must, in the normal way
|
|
371
|
|
|
Of business, turn a more than average
|
|
372
|
|
|
Profit, a thousand francs or so, he’d gage.
|
| |
|
373
|
|
|
His wife was there and met him at the gate,
|
|
374
|
|
|
As she was wont to do, early and late,
|
|
375
|
|
|
And all that night long, in mirth they met,
|
|
376
|
|
|
For he was rich, and free of all his debt.
|
|
377
|
|
|
When it was day, the merchant did embrace
|
|
378
|
|
|
His wife afresh, and then he kissed her face,
|
|
379
|
|
|
At her he went, and played a little rough.
|
| |
|
380
|
|
|
‘No more!’ quoth she, ‘by God, you have enough!’
|
|
381
|
|
|
And wantonly again with him she played,
|
|
382
|
|
|
Till, at the last, thus the merchant said:
|
|
383
|
|
|
‘I’m angered somewhat’ quoth he, ‘by my oath,
|
|
384
|
|
|
With you, my wife, although as ever loth
|
|
385
|
|
|
To criticise. And why? Well, as I guess,
|
|
386
|
|
|
You’ve brought about a kind of awkwardness
|
|
387
|
|
|
Between me and my cousin good Sir John.
|
|
388
|
|
|
You should have warned me, ere I was gone,
|
|
389
|
|
|
That he a hundred francs to you had paid
|
|
390
|
|
|
By ready tokens, and was quite dismayed
|
|
391
|
|
|
When I spoke about a loan to be advanced –
|
|
392
|
|
|
Or so it seemed from his wry countenance.
|
|
393
|
|
|
Yet, nonetheless, by God, our Heavenly King,
|
|
394
|
|
|
I’d had no wish to ask for anything.
|
|
395
|
|
|
I pray you wife, next time do not do so;
|
|
396
|
|
|
Tell me always, ere that from you I go,
|
|
397
|
|
|
Of any debtor who may in my absence
|
|
398
|
|
|
Have paid you, lest by your negligence
|
|
399
|
|
|
I ask him for what he’s already paid.’
|
| |
|
400
|
|
|
The wife was unfazed and unafraid,
|
|
401
|
|
|
And boldly she said, and that anon:
|
|
402
|
|
|
‘Marry, I defy the false monk, Sir John!
|
|
403
|
|
|
I care naught for his tokens. It befell
|
|
404
|
|
|
He gave me certain coins, I know it well –
|
|
405
|
|
|
What then? Evil fall on his monk’s snout! –
|
|
406
|
|
|
For, God knows, I thought, without a doubt,
|
|
407
|
|
|
That they were given to me because of you,
|
|
408
|
|
|
To do me honour, and benefit me too,
|
|
409
|
|
|
From cousinship, and also the good cheer
|
|
410
|
|
|
He has so often had when he was here.
|
|
411
|
|
|
But since it seems the thing is all disjoint,
|
|
412
|
|
|
I’ll answer you briefly now, and to the point.
|
|
413
|
|
|
You’ve many a slacker debtor than me,
|
|
414
|
|
|
For I will pay you well and readily
|
|
415
|
|
|
From day to day; and if so ever I fail,
|
|
416
|
|
|
I am your wife, tally it on my tail,
|
|
417
|
|
|
And I will pay as soon as ever I may.
|
|
418
|
|
|
For, by my oath I have, on fine display,
|
|
419
|
|
|
But not extravagance, as thus befell,
|
|
420
|
|
|
Spent every bit, and spent it all so well
|
|
421
|
|
|
For your honour, that, for God’s sake, I say
|
|
422
|
|
|
Do not be angry, let us laugh and play.
|
|
423
|
|
|
You’ll have my sweet body as pledge instead;
|
|
424
|
|
|
By God, I’ll only pay you thus, in bed!
|
|
425
|
|
|
Forgive me then, my own spouse, my dear;
|
|
426
|
|
|
Turn hitherward, and show better cheer.’
|
| |
|
427
|
|
|
The merchant saw there was no remedy,
|
|
428
|
|
|
And to chide her for it merely folly,
|
|
429
|
|
|
Since the thing could not amended be.
|
|
430
|
|
|
‘Well, wife,’ he said, ‘I forgive it thee;
|
|
431
|
|
|
But by your life, the bills make not so large.
|
|
432
|
|
|
Guard our wealth better; so I you do charge.’
|
|
433
|
|
|
Thus ends my tale now, and may God us send
|
|
434
|
|
|
Tal(ly)ing enough unto our own life’s end! Amen.
|
| |
|
435
|
|
|
Here ends the Shipman’s Tale
|
| |
| |
|
2. The Shipman-Prioress Link
|
|
0
|
|
|
Behold the merry words of the Host to the Shipman and to the Lady Prioress
|
| |
|
1
|
|
|
‘Well said, by Corpus Dominus!’ quoth our Host.
|
|
2
|
|
|
‘Now, long may you sail about our coast,
|
|
3
|
|
|
Sir gentle master, gentle mariner!
|
|
4
|
|
|
God give the monk a cartload of bad years!
|
|
5
|
|
|
Aha, my friends, be wary of such japes!
|
|
6
|
|
|
In the merchant’s hood our monk loosed an ape,
|
|
7
|
|
|
And in his wife’s too, by Saint Augustine;
|
|
8
|
|
|
Ask no more monks to any house you’re in.
|
| |
|
9
|
|
|
But now, pass on, and let us seek about
|
|
10
|
|
|
For who will next tell, of all this rout,
|
|
11
|
|
|
Another tale’ – and after that he said,
|
|
12
|
|
|
As courteously as if he were a maid:
|
|
13
|
|
|
‘My Lady Prioress, by your leave,
|
|
14
|
|
|
If that I knew it would not truly grieve,
|
|
15
|
|
|
I would judge it fitting that you should
|
|
16
|
|
|
Tell the next tale, if it so be you would.
|
|
17
|
|
|
Now will you agree, my lady dear?’
|
|
18
|
|
|
‘Gladly,’ quoth she, and spoke as you shall hear.
|
| |
| |
|
3. The Prioress’s Prologue
|
|
0
|
|
|
The Prologue to the Prioress’s Tale
|
| |
|
1
|
|
|
Domine dominus noster: O Lord, our Lord (Psalm 8)
|
| |
|
2
|
|
|
‘O Lord, our Lord, your name how marvellous
|
|
3
|
|
|
It is, far spread in this great world!’ quoth she,
|
|
4
|
|
|
‘For not only is your praise, most precious,
|
|
5
|
|
|
Celebrated by men of dignity,
|
|
6
|
|
|
But in the mouths of children your bounty
|
|
7
|
|
|
Is celebrated too; for at the breast sucking
|
|
8
|
|
|
Sometimes they’ll display their thanksgiving.
|
| |
|
9
|
|
|
Wherefore in praise, as best I can or may,
|
|
10
|
|
|
Of Thee and of the white lily flower
|
|
11
|
|
|
Who bore Thee, and is a maid always,
|
|
12
|
|
|
To tell a tale I’ll now turn my labour –
|
|
13
|
|
|
Not that I may thus increase her honour,
|
|
14
|
|
|
For she herself is honour, the fountain
|
|
15
|
|
|
Of worth, next her Son, the soul’s salvation.
|
| |
|
16
|
|
|
O mother-maid, O maiden-mother free!
|
|
17
|
|
|
O bush un-burnt, burning in Moses’ sight,
|
|
18
|
|
|
That drew down in joy from the Deity,
|
|
19
|
|
|
Through your humility, in you to alight,
|
|
20
|
|
|
The Holy Ghost, of whose power, your heart-light,
|
|
21
|
|
|
Was conceived the Father’s Sapience,
|
|
22
|
|
|
Help me to speak, and show you reverence.
|
| |
|
23
|
|
|
Lady, your worth, and your magnificence,
|
|
24
|
|
|
Your virtue, and your great humility,
|
|
25
|
|
|
No tongue may express, nor no science.
|
|
26
|
|
|
For often lady, ere men pray to thee,
|
|
27
|
|
|
You go before them, in benignity,
|
|
28
|
|
|
And obtain the light for us of prayer
|
|
29
|
|
|
To guide us towards your Son so dear.
|
| |
|
30
|
|
|
My skill’s so weak, O my blissful Queen,
|
|
31
|
|
|
Ever to declare your great worthiness,
|
|
32
|
|
|
That I may not the weight of it sustain,
|
|
33
|
|
|
But like a child but twelve months old or less,
|
|
34
|
|
|
That can scarce a single word express,
|
|
35
|
|
|
So then am I; and therefore I now pray,
|
|
36
|
|
|
Guide my song of you, as on I say.
|
| |
| |
|
4. The Prioress’s Tale
|
|
0
|
|
|
Here begins the Prioress’s Tale
|
| |
|
1
|
|
|
There was in Asia, in a great city
|
|
2
|
|
|
Of Christian folks, a ghetto for Jewry,
|
|
3
|
|
|
Maintained by a lord of that country,
|
|
4
|
|
|
For shameful profit out of foul usury,
|
|
5
|
|
|
Hateful to Christ and all his company.
|
|
6
|
|
|
And through its streets men might ride and wend,
|
|
7
|
|
|
For it was free, and open at either end.
|
| |
|
8
|
|
|
A little school of Christian folk there stood
|
|
9
|
|
|
Down at the farther end, in which there were
|
|
10
|
|
|
A crowd of children, born of Christian blood,
|
|
11
|
|
|
Who learned in that school, year by year,
|
|
12
|
|
|
Such manner of doctrine as men used there –
|
|
13
|
|
|
That is to say, to sing and then to read,
|
|
14
|
|
|
As little ones when children do, indeed.
|
| |
|
15
|
|
|
Among these children was a widow’s son,
|
|
16
|
|
|
A little schoolboy, seven years of age,
|
|
17
|
|
|
Who day by day off to the school would run,
|
|
18
|
|
|
And also whenever he saw the image
|
|
19
|
|
|
Of Christ’s mother, as was common usage
|
|
20
|
|
|
And taught to him, would kneel down and say
|
|
21
|
|
|
His Ave Maria, as he passed by the way.
|
| |
|
22
|
|
|
Thus had the widow her small son taught
|
|
23
|
|
|
Our blissful lady, Christ’s mother dear,
|
|
24
|
|
|
To worship ever; and he’d forgotten naught,
|
|
25
|
|
|
For innocent children are quick to hear
|
|
26
|
|
|
Such things. And I remember in this matter,
|
|
27
|
|
|
Saint Nicholas, who is ever in my presence,
|
|
28
|
|
|
Who though young showed Christ due reverence.
|
| |
|
29
|
|
|
This little child, his little book studying,
|
|
30
|
|
|
As he sat in school over his primer,
|
|
31
|
|
|
Alma redemptoris heard others singing,
|
|
32
|
|
|
Learning the antiphon from their reader;
|
|
33
|
|
|
And close as he dared he drew near and nearer,
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34
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And harkened to the word and the notes,
|
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35
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Till he had learnt the first verse by rote.
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|
36
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He’d no grasp of what the Latin might say,
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37
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Being so young, and of so tender an age;
|
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38
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But one morning he asked a friend, if, pray,
|
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39
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He might expound the song in his language,
|
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40
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And tell him why it was in common usage.
|
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41
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He begged him to construe it and declare
|
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42
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Its meaning, often down on his knees bare.
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43
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His friend, who was older than was he,
|
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44
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Answered him thus: ‘This song, I have heard say,
|
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45
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Was made about our blissful Lady free,
|
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46
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To salute her, and also to her pray
|
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47
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To be our help and succour always.
|
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48
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I can expound no further of this matter;
|
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49
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I know the song; but have no grasp of grammar.’
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| |
|
50
|
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‘And is this song made in reverence
|
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51
|
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Of Christ’s mother?’ asked the innocent.
|
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52
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‘Then I’ll employ all my diligence
|
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53
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To learn it all ere Christmastide is spent,
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54
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Though from my primer I must be rent,
|
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55
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And shall be beaten thrice in an hour,
|
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56
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I will learn it, Our Lady for to honour.’
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|
57
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His friend taught him it privately
|
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58
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Each day as they went home, till by rote
|
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59
|
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He knew it, then sang it well and boldly,
|
|
60
|
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Every word, according to the notes.
|
|
61
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Twice a day it passed through his throat,
|
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62
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School-ward and homeward as he went;
|
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63
|
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|
On Christ’s mother set was his intent.
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|
64
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|
As I have said, among the Jewry,
|
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65
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|
|
This little child, as he went to and fro,
|
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66
|
|
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Full merrily then would he sing and cry
|
|
67
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|
‘O alma redemptoris’ and ever so.
|
|
68
|
|
|
The sweetness had pierced his heart, lo,
|
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69
|
|
|
Of Christ’s mother, so that he must pray
|
|
70
|
|
|
To her, nor leave off singing by the way.
|
| |
|
71
|
|
|
Our first foe, Serpent Satan, who has
|
|
72
|
|
|
Made in the Jew’s heart his wasp’s nest,
|
|
73
|
|
|
Swelled up and said, ‘O Hebrew folk, alas!
|
|
74
|
|
|
Is this a thing that seems to you full honest,
|
|
75
|
|
|
That such a boy shall walk by, as if blessed,
|
|
76
|
|
|
In spite of you, and sing out each sentence
|
|
77
|
|
|
That goes against the laws you reverence?’
|
| |
|
78
|
|
|
From thenceforth the Jews there conspired
|
|
79
|
|
|
The innocent from out this world to chase.
|
|
80
|
|
|
A murderer, to serve this end, they hired,
|
|
81
|
|
|
Who in an alley had a private place,
|
|
82
|
|
|
And as the child passed by at a pace,
|
|
83
|
|
|
This wretched Jew caught and held him fast,
|
|
84
|
|
|
And cut his throat, and in the pit him cast.
|
| |
|
85
|
|
|
Into a privy-drain him they threw,
|
|
86
|
|
|
Where the Jews purged their entrails.
|
|
87
|
|
|
O cursed folk of Herod, born anew,
|
|
88
|
|
|
How shall your evil intent you avail?
|
|
89
|
|
|
Murder will out, for sure, and shall not fail
|
|
90
|
|
|
God’s honour, there, especially for to speed,
|
|
91
|
|
|
The blood cries out against your cursed deed.
|
| |
|
92
|
|
|
O Martyr, bonded to virginity,
|
|
93
|
|
|
Now you may sing, ever following on
|
|
94
|
|
|
The white Lamb celestial – quoth she –
|
|
95
|
|
|
Of which the great evangelist, Saint John
|
|
96
|
|
|
Of Patmos, wrote, who says those who are gone
|
|
97
|
|
|
Sing before the Lamb a song all new,
|
|
98
|
|
|
Who never, in the flesh, women knew.
|
| |
|
99
|
|
|
The poor widow waited all that night
|
|
100
|
|
|
For her little child, but he came not.
|
|
101
|
|
|
So, as soon as ever it was light,
|
|
102
|
|
|
Her face pale with dread, in anxious thought,
|
|
103
|
|
|
She, at the school and elsewhere, him sought;
|
|
104
|
|
|
Till this much she discovered, finally,
|
|
105
|
|
|
That he had last been seen among the Jewry.
|
| |
|
106
|
|
|
With mother’s pity in her breast enclosed,
|
|
107
|
|
|
She went, and she was half out of her mind,
|
|
108
|
|
|
To every place where she might suppose
|
|
109
|
|
|
It likely that she might her child find;
|
|
110
|
|
|
And ever on Christ’s mother, meek and kind,
|
|
111
|
|
|
She cried, and at the last thus she wrought:
|
|
112
|
|
|
Among the cursed Jews she him sought.
|
| |
|
113
|
|
|
She begged, and she prayed piteously
|
|
114
|
|
|
Of every Jew who dwelt in that place,
|
|
115
|
|
|
To tell her if her child had been by.
|
|
116
|
|
|
They said ‘nay’ but Jesus, of His grace,
|
|
117
|
|
|
Put in her mind, within a little space,
|
|
118
|
|
|
To go from that place, where she cried,
|
|
119
|
|
|
To where he was, in the pit, cast aside.
|
| |
|
120
|
|
|
O Great God, that hears Your praise performed
|
|
121
|
|
|
Through innocent mouths, lo, here is Your might!
|
|
122
|
|
|
This gem of chastity, this emerald,
|
|
123
|
|
|
And of martyrdom this ruby bright,
|
|
124
|
|
|
Lay there with his throat cut, upright,
|
|
125
|
|
|
And Alma redemptoris did he sing
|
|
126
|
|
|
So loud that all the place began to ring.
|
| |
|
127
|
|
|
The Christian folk who through the streets went
|
|
128
|
|
|
Came crowding for wonder at this thing,
|
|
129
|
|
|
And swiftly for the provost then they sent.
|
|
130
|
|
|
He came anon, without tarrying,
|
|
131
|
|
|
While praising Christ, who is of Heaven king,
|
|
132
|
|
|
His mother also, honour of mankind,
|
|
133
|
|
|
And after that the wretched Jews did bind.
|
| |
|
134
|
|
|
The child, with piteous lamentation
|
|
135
|
|
|
Was lifted up, singing his song always;
|
|
136
|
|
|
And with honour in a great procession
|
|
137
|
|
|
Carried to the abbey ere close of day.
|
|
138
|
|
|
His mother, swooning, by his bier lay;
|
|
139
|
|
|
Scarcely could the people with a tear
|
|
140
|
|
|
Drag this second Rachel from his bier.
|
| |
|
141
|
|
|
With torment and shameful death each one
|
|
142
|
|
|
The Provost sentence on the Jews did serve
|
|
143
|
|
|
Who of the murder knew, and that anon.
|
|
144
|
|
|
Death for such wickedness he must observe.
|
|
145
|
|
|
Evil shall have what evil does deserve;
|
|
146
|
|
|
So with wild horses he did them draw,
|
|
147
|
|
|
And hung them then, according to the law.
|
| |
|
148
|
|
|
Upon his bier still lay this innocent,
|
|
149
|
|
|
Before the altar while the Mass did last,
|
|
150
|
|
|
And after that the Abbot with his convent,
|
|
151
|
|
|
Hastened them to bury him full fast.
|
|
152
|
|
|
And when they holy water on him cast,
|
|
153
|
|
|
The child spoke, sprinkled with the water,
|
|
154
|
|
|
And sang: ‘O alma redemptis mater’.
|
| |
|
155
|
|
|
The abbot then, who was a holy man,
|
|
156
|
|
|
As monks are – or else they ought to be –
|
|
157
|
|
|
The little child to beseech began,
|
|
158
|
|
|
Saying: ‘O, dear child, I entreat thee,
|
|
159
|
|
|
By virtue of the Holy Trinity,
|
|
160
|
|
|
Tell me what allows you thus to sing,
|
|
161
|
|
|
Since your throat is cut, as seems the thing?’
|
| |
|
162
|
|
|
‘My throat is cut through to the neck-bone,’
|
|
163
|
|
|
Said the child, ‘in the manner of mankind,
|
|
164
|
|
|
I should have died – and long ago be gone.
|
|
165
|
|
|
But Jesus Christ, as you in books will find,
|
|
166
|
|
|
Wills that His glory last, be kept in mind;
|
|
167
|
|
|
And for the worship of his mother dear,
|
|
168
|
|
|
I may yet sing “O alma” loud and clear.
|
| |
|
169
|
|
|
That well of mercy, Christ’s mother sweet,
|
|
170
|
|
|
I have loved always, after my knowing;
|
|
171
|
|
|
And when my death I was about to meet,
|
|
172
|
|
|
She came to me, and bade me for to sing
|
|
173
|
|
|
This anthem in truth while I was dying,
|
|
174
|
|
|
As you have heard; and when I had sung
|
|
175
|
|
|
She laid a grain of seed upon my tongue.
|
| |
|
176
|
|
|
And so I sing, and sing I must again,
|
|
177
|
|
|
In honour of that blissful maiden free,
|
|
178
|
|
|
Till from my tongue is removed that grain.
|
|
179
|
|
|
And after that, thus she spoke to me:
|
|
180
|
|
|
“My little child, I will come to fetch thee
|
|
181
|
|
|
When that the grain from your tongue they take.
|
|
182
|
|
|
Be not afraid; I will not thee forsake.”’
|
| |
|
183
|
|
|
The holy monk – the abbot, I mean he –
|
|
184
|
|
|
Touched his tongue, and so removed the grain,
|
|
185
|
|
|
And thus he gave up the ghost full softly.
|
|
186
|
|
|
And when the abbot saw this wonder plain,
|
|
187
|
|
|
His salt tears trickled down like rain,
|
|
188
|
|
|
And down he fell flat upon the ground,
|
|
189
|
|
|
And still he lay, as if he had been bound.
|
| |
|
190
|
|
|
The convent of monks lay on the pavement
|
|
191
|
|
|
Weeping, praising Christ’s mother dear.
|
|
192
|
|
|
And after that they rose, and forth they went,
|
|
193
|
|
|
And took up the martyr from his bier.
|
|
194
|
|
|
And in a tomb of marble polished sheer
|
|
195
|
|
|
They enclosed his little body sweet.
|
|
196
|
|
|
There he is now, God grant we may meet!
|
| |
|
197
|
|
|
O young Hugh of Lincoln, slain also
|
|
198
|
|
|
By cursed Jews, a tale still notable,
|
|
199
|
|
|
Since it was but a little while ago,
|
|
200
|
|
|
Pray for us too, we folk to sin so liable,
|
|
201
|
|
|
That, in His mercy, God all merciful
|
|
202
|
|
|
Grant us great mercy, and never vary,
|
|
203
|
|
|
In reverence for his mother Mary. Amen.
|
| |
