POLITICAL SONGS. (continued 4)

The general hatred to the Scots did not hinder the people from feeling grieved by the heavy taxes which were raised to support the war, and more particularly the expeditions into Flanders, (which latter were ill managed, and produced no results,) or from showing their dissatisfaction. The King’s measures of ambition were often thwarted by the stern opposition of the barons and the commons. The following song was directed more particularly against the unconstitutional seizure of wool, and generally against all the taxes raised for the Flemish war.

SONG AGAINST THE KING’S TAXES.

[MS. Harl. No. 2253, fol. 137, v^o, written in reign of Edw. II.]

Translation.—O God, king of majesty, for the sake of the Trinity,—do not permit our king and his household to perish;—great hurt and great ruin he caused him to have,—who made him pass over the sea.—In order that the king may prosper, may his false advisers be accursed.

A king ought not to go out of his kingdom to make war,—unless the commons of his land will consent:—by treason we often see very many perish;—no one can tell in whom to trust with certainty.—Let not the king go out of his kingdom without counsel.

Now goes in England from year to year—the fifteenth penny, to do thus a common harm.—And it makes them go down, who used to sit upon a bench;—and it obliges the common people to sell both cows, vessels, and clothes.—It does not please thus to pay the fifteenth to the last penny.

One thing is against faith, whereby the people is aggrieved,—that the half of what is raised in the kingdom does not come to the king.—Since he has not the whole, as it is given to him,—the people is obliged to give the more, and thus they are cut short.—For the taxes which are raised are not all given to the king.

The collecting of the wool grieves the common people still more,—which drives them commonly to sell their property.—Such counsel cannot be acceptable to God,—thus to destroy the poor people by a bitter burthen.—It is not sound law, which gives my wool to the king.

What is still more contrary to peace, as people witness,—they retain two or three parts in the sack.—To whom shall remain this wool? Some answer,—that neither king nor queen shall have it, but only the collectors.—Such a false weight of wool is manifestly a bitter thing.

Since the king is determined to take so much,—he may find enough among the rich and he would get more and do better, as it appears to me,—to have taken a part from the great, and to have spared the little.—He sins who takes the money of the needy without cause.

We ought not to lay such wickedness to the charge of the king,—but to the bad counsellor, by his rapacity. The king is a young bachelor, and is not of an age—to compass any malice, but to do all probity.—Such counsel does general harm.

It is no trouble to the great thus to grant to the king a tax; the simple must pay it all, which is contrary to God’s will.—This counsel is not at all good, but polluted with vice;—it is ill ordained, that those who grant should pay nothing.—For those who make the grant give nothing to the king, it is the needy only who give.

How will they perform good deeds out of the sweat of the poor,—whom the rich ought to spare, by gift or favour?—they ought to tax the great, for the fear of God;—and spare more the people, who live in pain.—Thou who art rich enough, live not thus upon the poor.

I see at the present day how people are proud,—with other people’s goods they hold great court, which will quickly pass.—When the high judgment comes, the great day of wrath,—unless they make atonement, they must then perish.—The King says to the bad, “Go:” to the good, “Come.”

O God, who wast crowned with the sharp thorn,—have pity with divine grace upon thy people!—May the world be comforted of such ruin!—To tell unvarnished truth, it is mere robbery.—The property of the poor taken without their will, is as it were stolen.

Such tribute can in no manner last long;—out of emptiness who can give, or touch anything with his hands.—People are reduced to such ill plight, that they can give no more;—I fear, if they had a leader, they would rise in rebellion.—Loss of property often makes people fools.

There is so much scarcity of money among people,—that people can in the market, there are so few buyers,—although they may have cloth or corn, swine or sheep,—make nothing of them, in truth, there are so many needy people.—The people is not joyful, when money is so scarce.

If the king would take my advice, I would praise him then,—to take the vessels of silver, and make money of them;—it would be better to eat out of wood, and to give money for victuals—than to serve the body with silver, and pay with wood.—It is a sign of vice, to pay for victuals with wood.

The commissions of those who are employed over sea are too dear;—now the poor have not their lands to sustain the same.—I do not know how they can save their souls,—who would live upon other people’s goods, and save their own.—They cannot doubt but they will be punished, who covet the property of others.

May God, for the sake of his holy name, confound errors,—and those who meditate treason, and the disturbers of the peace!—and take vengeance on such tormentors!—and confirm and grant love between the kings!—May he lose consolation who breaks the peace! Amen.

Although the English people were grieved by the King’s expensive and ill-conducted foreign wars, yet they were not wanting in commiseration for the Flemish burghers in their struggle against France. The song which follows was composed soon after the battle of Courtrai, in which the Comte d’Artois and his army were defeated and destroyed by the Flemings in 1302.

SONG ON THE FLEMISH INSURRECTION.

[MS. Harl. No. 2253, fol. 73, v^o. of reign of Edw. II.]

Translation.—Listen, Lordings, both young and old,—of the Frenchmen that were so proud and bold,—how the Flemmish men bought and sold them—upon a Wednesday.—Better it had been for them at home in their country,—than to seek Flemings by the sea-strand,—through which many a French woman wrings her hands,—and sings, weladay!

The King of France made new statutes—in the land of Flanders, among false and true,—that the commons of Bruges full sorely began to rue,—and said amongst themselves,—“Let us assemble together boldly in the evening,—let us take the bailiffs by twenties and by tens,—let us clap off their heads above on the green,—and let us cast them in the fen.”

The weavers and the fullers assembled them all,—and held their council in their common hall,—they took Peter Conyng to be called their king,—and to be their chieftain.—They took their horses out of the stable,—and closed the town within the wall;—seventy bailiffs they made down fall,—and many another man.

Then would the bailiffs that were come from France—drive out the Flemings who made the disturbance;—but they turned against them with sword and with lance,—strong men and nimble.—I tell you for truth, in spite of their vaunting,—and in spite of the patronage of the King of France,—four hundred and five had there mischance—by day and also by night.

Sir Jacques de St. Paul heard how it was:—he assembled sixteen hundred knights on the grass;—they went towards Bruges step by step,—with a very great body of people.—The Flemings heard tell of the case; they begin to clink their basins of brass,—and they break them all to pieces as a stone does glass,—and fell them to the ground.

Sixteen hundred knights had there their end;—they lay in the streets stuck like swine;—there they lost their steeds, and many a horse,—through their own pride;—Sir Jacques escaped by a cunning contrivance,—out at a postern where they sold wine,—out of the fight home to his lodging,—in very great fear.

When the King of France heard this, anon—he assembled his douze peers every one,—the proud Comte d’Artois and others many a one,—to come to Paris.—The barons of France began to go thither,—into the palace that is paved with stone,—to judge the Flemings to be burnt and slain,—through the fleur-de-lis.

Then said King Philip, “Listen now to me,—my earls and my barons gentle and free,—go, fetch me the traitors in bonds to my knees,—hastily and quickly.”—Then swore the Comte de Saint Paul, “By the throat of God!—we shall fetch the ribalds wherever it be thy will,—and draw them with wild horses out of the country—by five-thousands.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A SONG ON THE TIMES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SONG AGAINST THE SCHOLASTIC STUDIES.

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

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

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

THE SONG OF “NEGO.”

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

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

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

SONG ON THE EXECUTION OF SIR SIMON FRASER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SONG ON THE VENALITY OF THE JUDGES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE OUTLAW’S SONG OF TRAILLEBASTON.

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

Translation.—I am seized with the desire to rhyme and to make a story,—of a purveyance which is provided in the land;—it would be much better if the thing were still undone:—if God does not avert it, I think that there will arise war.

It is the articles of Traillebaston;—except the king himself, may he have God’s curse—whoever first granted such a commission!—For there is little reason in any of the points of it.

Sire, if I wished to chastise my lad—with a slap or two, to amend him,—he will ask a bill against me, and will cause me to be arrested,—and to give a great ransom before I escape from prison.

Forty shillings they take for my ransom,—and the sheriff comes for his fee,—that he may not put me in deep prison.—Now consider, lords, is this right?

For this cause I will keep myself among the woods, in the beautiful shade;—where there is no falseness and no bad law;—in the wood of Beauregard, where the jay flies,—and where the nightingale sings always without ceasing.

But the bad idlers, on whom may God have no pity!—with their false mouths have indited me—of ill robberies and other delinquency,—so that I dare not be received among my friends.

I have served my lord the king in peace and in war,—in Flanders, Scotland, and his land of Gascony;—but now I do not know how to make any expedient for myself;—all my time I have spent in vain to please such a man.

If these wicked jurors will not amend,—that I may be able to ride and go at my peace,—if I can reach them I will make their heads fly off,—I would not give a penny for all their threats.

The Martin and the Knoville are people of piety,—and pray for the poor that they may have safety;—Spigurnel and Belflour are people of cruelty,—if they were in my keeping they should not be returned.

I would teach them the game of Trailebaston,—and would break their backbone and their crupper,—their arms and their legs, it would be but right,—I would cut their tongues and their mouths likewise.

He who first commenced these things,—never in his life will he be amended;—I tell you for truth, he has committed therein too great a sin,—for out of the fear of prison there will be many a robber made.

He will become a robber who was never so before,—who for fear of prison dare not come to peace;—it is necessary to have livelihood every day as it comes;—he who commenced this thing, undertook a great task.

Well may merchants and monks bestow a curse—on all those who ordained the Trailebaston;—the royal protection will not be worth a garlic to them,—if they do not repay the pence without recompense.

You who are indited, I advise you, come to me,—to the green wood of Beauregard, there where there is no plea,—except wild beast and beautiful shade;—for the common law is too much to be feared.

If thou knowest letters, and art enraged,—thou shalt be called before the justices;—again you may be returned to prison,—in keeping of the bishop, until you be cleansed;—and suffer mis-ease and too hard penance,—and perchance you will never have deliverance.

Therefore it is better to dwell with me in the wood,—than to lie cast in the bishop’s prison.—Too much is the penance, and hard to suffer;—he who has the opportunity to select what is better, is a fool if he does not make the choice.

Before I knew little what was good, now I am less wise;—the bad laws cause this by very great outrage,—so that I dare not come to the peace among my kindred;—the rich are put to ransom, the poor to prison.

It would be penible to engage what cannot be acquitted;—that is the life of man which is so dearly loved;—and I have not at all the goods wherewith to be bought off;—but if I were in their power I should be put to death.

Yet if I should expect grace and hear people talk,—those would say evil to me who dare not approach me,—and would willingly see my body disgraced.—But God can save a man in the midst of a thousand devils.

He can save me, who is the son of Mary;—for I am not culpable, I am indited out of malice;—God’s curse be on those who drove me to this place!—The world is so variable, that he is a fool who trusts in it.

If I am a companion and know archery,—my neighbour will go and say, “This man belongs to a company,—to go hunt in the wood and do other folly;”—so now I will live as a pig will lead his life.

If I happen to know more law than they know,—they will say this conspirator begins to be treasonable,—and I will not approach home within ten leagues of them;—of all neighbourhoods cursed be those.

I pray all good people that they will pray for me,—that I may be able to go and ride to my country;—I was never a homicide, at least by design,—nor an ill robber to do people damage.

This rhyme was made in the wood beneath a bay tree,—there sings the thrush, the nightingale, and the hawk cries (?);—it was written on parchment to be better remembered,—and cast in the highway, that people may find it.

The following song is a satire upon the numerous retinues of the nobles and rich people, whose idle attendants and servants preyed upon the produce of the industrious peasantry. It shows us how great were the pride and ostentation of the courtiers of the latter years of Edward the First.

A SONG AGAINST THE RETINUES OF THE GREAT PEOPLE.

[MS. Harl. 2253, fol. 124, v^o; of reign of Edw. II.]

Translation.—Of ribalds I rhyme—and read in my roll,—of gadlings, grooms,—of Colin and of Colle,—scoundrels, horse-boys,—by pate and by poll;—to the devil I them deliver—and give for toll.

The gadlings were gathered—of ...;—palfrey-keepers and pages,—and boys with boast;—all were ...—of a horse ...:—may the devil devour them—raw or roasted!

The maker that made them,—he shed them to shame,—to fleas and to fly,—to tyke and to toad;—so saith Romanz,—whoever read right,—fly comes of flower,—and louse comes of lad.

The rogues are horelings,—and haunt the play:—the gadlings are gluttons,—and drink before it dawns.—Satan their sire—said in his saying,—Goblin made his garner—of the grooms’ maw.

The knave crams his crop—before the cock crows;—he mumbles and mocks,—and marrs his maw;—when he is all weary of lapping (?),—and laid over law,—a dozen of dogs—could not draw him.

The ribalds arise—before the day breaks;—they scrape on their scabs,—and draw themselves to the dew.—Seen it is on his forehead—and on his eye-brows, that he looseth a flatterer,—and shoeth a shrew.

Now are horse-clawers—shamefully clothed;—they busk them with buttons—as it were a bride:—with low laced shoes—of a heifer’s hide,—they pick out of their provender—all their pride.

Whoever reckons with knaves—their expense,—the perverseness of the lad,—the pride of the page,—though he give them cats’ dirt—for their sustenance,—yet he shall rue—of the arrears.

While God was on earth—and wandered wide,—what was the reason—why he would not ride?—Because he would not have a groom—to go by his side,—nor the grudging of any gadling—to jaw or to chide.

Haste you to spew,—as men do to spell (talk);—may the fiend devour you—with flesh and with skin!—Harken this way, horsemen,—a tiding I tell you,—that ye shall hang,—and be lodged in hell.

REIGN OF EDWARD II. 1307–1327.

Edward the First quitted the stage at a period when wars from without and internal troubles were gathering fast over his country. His son and successor, a weak and ill-advised prince, was little calculated to repel the one or to calm the other; and the following song shows us that, contrary to the general rule in such cases, the people were more sorrowful for their loss than pleased with the novelty of a new monarch.

LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD I.

[MS. Bibl. Publ. Cantab. Gg. I. 1, fol. 489, of the reign of Edw. II.]

Translation.—Lords, listen, for the sake of God the great,—a little song of grievous sorrow,—for the death of a precious king;—a man he was of great goodness,—and who by his loyalty—has sustained many a great encounter;—this thing is proved well;—of his land he lost none.—Let us pray God with devotion—that he pardon him his sins.

Of England he was lord,—and a king who knew much of war;—in no book can we read—of a king who sustained better his land.—All the things which he would do,—wisely he brought them to an end.—Now his body lies in the earth;—and the world is going to ruin.

The King of France did great sin,—to hinder the voyage—which King Edward undertook for God’s sake,—to pass the water against the Saracens.—His treasure was beyond the sea,—and he ordains his purveyance—to sustain holy church:—now is the land in despair.

Jerusalem, thou hast lost—the flower of thy chivalry,—King Edward the old and hoary,—who loved so much thy lordship.—Now he is dead; I know not at all—who will maintain thy banner:—his gentle heart for great love—he will send you over the sea.

One day before death took him,—he would talk with his baronage;—he saw the knights before him,—grievously he began to weep.—“I shall die,” he said, “of necessity,—I see my death which comes to seek me;—cause my son to be crowned king,—may the Lord God give him grace to do well!”

At Poitiers to the pope—a messenger told his death;—and the pope put on the stole,—with bitter tears he took the letters.—“Alas!” he said, “how? is he dead—to whom God gave so much honour?—May God grant mercy to his soul!—he was the flower of holy church.”

The pope entered in his chamber,—he could scarcely support it;—and he sent for all the cardinals,—grievously he began to weep.—The cardinals made him desist,—aloud they begin their service they cause the bells to be rung through the city,—and God’s service to be performed in holy church.

The pope himself came to the mass,—with very great solemnity;—he often applies himself to absolve the soul,—and said in great humility:—“May it please God in Trinity,—that your son may effect the conquest—of Jerusalem the noble city,—and pass into the Holy Land!”

The young Edward of England—is anointed and crowned king:—may God grant that he follow such counsel,—that the country may be governed;—and so to keep the crown,—that the land may be entire,—and himself to increase in goodness,—for his father was a worthy man.

If Aristotle were alive,—and Virgil who knew skill,—they would not say the value—of the worthy man a tenth part.—Now is dead King Edward,—for whom my heart is in desolation;—may God preserve his soul in safety,—for the sake of his holy passion! Amen.

The following song, in English, on the same event, is preserved in another manuscript. It is somewhat singular that one of these songs is clearly translated from the other, the variations being comparatively small, and consisting chiefly in the transposition of some of the stanzas. The French song was probably the original.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD I.

[MS. Harl. No. 2253, fol. 73, r^o. of the reign of Edw. II.]

Translation.—All that are true of heart,—a while hearken to my song,—of grief that death hath wrought us now,—which makes me sigh and sorrow in turns.—Of a knight that was so powerful,—on whom God hath done his will;—methinks that death has done us wrong,—that he so soon shall lie still.

All England ought to know—of whom the song is that I sing;—of Edward the king that lies so low,—through all this world his name sprang.—Trewest man of all things,—and in war wary and wise,—for him we ought our hands to wring,—of Christendom he bare the prize.

Before that our king was dead,—he spoke as one that was in care,—“Clergy, knights, barons,” he said,—“I charge you by your oath,—that ye to England be true.—I die, I may not live any more;—help my son, and crown him now,—for he is next to be chosen.