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Best Poems From
ANONYMOUS OLDE ENGLISH
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17.
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Maiden in the Mor Lay
Maiden in the mor lay--
in the mor lay--
Seuenyst fulle, seuenist fulle.
Maiden in the mor lay--
in the mor lay--
Seuenistes fulle ant a day.
Welle was hire mete.
wat was hire mete?
�e primerole ant the--
�e primerole ant the--
Welle was hire mete.
Wat was hire mete?
The primerole ant the violet.
Welle [was hire drying.]
wat was hire mete?
�e chelde water of pe--]
�e chelde water of �e welle-spring
Welle was hire drying.]
Wat ws hire drying?]
�e chelde water of �e welle-spring.
Welle was hire bour.
wat ws hire bour?
The rede rose an te--]
The rede rose an te--]
[Welle was hire bour.]
[Wat was hire bour?]
The rede rose an te lilie flour.
Translation
Maiden In The Moor
Maiden in the moor lay,
In the moor lay--
Seven nights full, seven nights full.
Maiden in the moor lay--
Seven nights full and a day.
Good was her meat.
What was her meat?
The primrose and the--
The primrose and the--
Good was her meat.
What was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.
Good was her drink.
What was her drink?
The chilled water of the--
The chilled water of the--
Good was her drink.hat was her drink?
The chilled water of the well spring.
Good was her bower.
What was her bower?
The red rose and the--
The red rose and the-
Good was her bower.
What was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.
Anonymous Olde English
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18.
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The Story Of Ill May Day, In The Reign Of King Henry VIII
The Story of Ill May Day, in the reign of king Henry the Eighth, and why it was so called; and how Queen Katherine begged the lives of two thousand London Apprentices. -- To the Tune of Essex Good Night.
Peruse the stories of this land,
And with advisement mark the same,
And you shall justly understand
How Ill May Day first got the name.
For when king Henry th' eighth did reign
And rul'd our famous kingdom here,
His royal queen he had from Spain,
With whom he liv'd full many a year.
Queen Katherine nam'd, as stories tell,
Some time his elder brother's wife;
By which unlawful marriage fell
An endless trouble during life:
Of his fair queen, and of her friends,
Which being by Spain and France perceiv'd,
Their journeys fast for England bends.
And with good leave were suffered
Within our kingdom here to stay,
Which multitude made victuals dear,
And all things else from day to day;
For strangers then did so increase,
And privileg'd in many a place
To dwell, as was in London seen.
Poor tradesmen had small dealing then,
And who but strangers bore the bell?
Which was a grief to English men,
To see them here in London dwell:
Wherefore (God-wot) upon May-eve,
The 'prentices a-maying went,
Who made the magistrates believe,
At all to have no other intent:
But such a May-game it was known,
As like in London never were;
For by the same full many a one
With loss of life did pay full dear:
For thousands came with Bilboe blade,
As with an army they could meet,
And such a bloody slaughter made
Of foreign strangers in the street,
That all the channels ran with blood.
In every street where they remain'd;
Yea, every one in danger stood,
That any of their part maintain'd:
The rich, the poor, the old, the young,
By 'prentices they suffer'd wrong,
When armed thus they gather'd head.
Such multitudes together went,
No warlike troops could them withstand,
Nor could by policy prevent,
What they by force thus took in hand:
Till, at the last, king Henry's power
This multitude encompass'd round,
Where, with the strength of London's tower,
They were by force suppress'd and bound.
And hundreds hang'd by martial law,
On sign-posts at their masters' doors,
By which the rest were kept in awe,
And frighted from such loud uproars;
And others which the fact repented
(Two thousand 'prentices at least)
Were all unto the king presented,
As mayor and magistrates thought best.
With two and two together tied,
Through Temple-bar and Strand they go,
To Westminster, there to be tried,
With ropes about their necks also:
But such a cry in every street,
Till then was never heard or known,
By mothers for their children sweet,
Unhappily thus overthrown;
Whose bitter moans and sad laments,
Possess'd the court with trembling fear;
Whereat the queen herself relents,
Though it concern'd her country dear:
What if (quoth she) by Spanish blood,
Have London's stately streets been wet,
Yet will I seek this country's good,
And pardon for these young men get;
Or else the world will speak of me,
And say queen Katherine was unkind,
And judge me still the cause to be,
These young men did these fortunes find:
And so, disrob'd from rich attires,
With hair hang'd down, she sadly hies,
And of her gracious lord requires
A boon, which hardly he denies.
The lives (quoth she) of all the blooms
Yet budding green, these youths I crave;
O let them not have timeless tombs,
For nature longer limits gave:
In saying so, the pearled tears
Fell trickling from her princely eyes;
Whereat his gentle queen he cheers,
And says, stand up, sweet lady, rise;
The lives of them I freely give,
No means this kindness shall debar,
Thou hast thy boon, and they may live
To serve me in my Bullen war.
No sooner was this pardon given,
But peals of joy rung through the halls,
As though it thundered down from heaven,
The queen's renown amongst them all.
For which (kind queen) with joyful heart,
She gave to them both thanks and praise,
And so from them did gently part,
And lived beloved all her days:
And when king Henry stood in need
Of trusty soldiers at command,
These 'prentices prov'd men indeed,
And fear'd no force of warlike band.
For, at the siege of Tours, in France,
They show'd themselves brave Englishmen;
At Bullen, too, they did advance
Saint George's ancient standard then;
Lest Tourine, Tournay, and those towns
That good king Henry nobly won,
Tell London's 'prentices' renowns,
And of their deeds by them there done.
For Ill May-day, and Ill May-games,
Perform'd in young and tender days,
can be no hindrance to their fames,
But now it is ordain'd by law,
We see on May-day's eve, at night,
To keep unruly youths in awe,
By London's watch, in armour bright
Still prevent the like misdeed,
Which once through headstrong young men came:
And that's the cause that I do read,
May-day doth get so ill a name.
Anonymous Olde English
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19.
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A Hymn to the Virgin
Of on that is so fayr and bright
Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,
Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,
Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee
Maria.
Al this world was for-lore
Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore
De te genetrice.
With
ave
it went away
Thuster nyth and cometh the day
Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the
Virtutis.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,
Rosa sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,
Gratia divina:
Of all thu berst the pris,
Levedy, quee of paradys
Electa:
Mayde milde, Moder
es
Effecta.
Anonymous Olde English
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20.
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A Lamentable Ballad Of The Lady's Fall. To The Tune Of In Pescod Time
Marke well my heavy, dolefull tale,
You loyall lovers all,
And heedfully beare in your brest
A gallant ladyes fall.
Long was she wooed, ere shee was wonne
To lead a wedded life,
But folly wrought her overthrowe
Before shee was a wife.
Too soone, alas! shee gave consent
And yeelded to his will,
Though he protested to be true
And faithfull to her still.
Shee felt her body altered quite,
Her bright hue waxed pale,
Her lovelye cheeks chang'd color white,
Her strength began to fayle.
Soe that with many a sorrowful sigh,
This beauteous ladye milde,
With greeved hart, perceived herselfe
To have conceived with childe.
Shee kept it from her parents sight
As close as close might bee,
And soe put on her silken gowne
None might her swelling see.
Unto her lover secretly
Her greefe she did bewray,
And, walking with him hand in hand,
These words to him did say:
'Behold,' quoth shee, a maids distresse
By love brought to thy bowe;
Behold I goe with childe by thee,
Tho none thereof doth knowe.
'The litle babe springs in my wombe
To heare its fathers voyce,
Lett it not be a bastard called,
Sith I made thee my choyce.
Come, come, my love, perform thy vowe,
And wed me out of hand;
O leave me not in this extreme
Of griefe, alas! to stand.
'Think on thy former promises,
Thy oathes and vowes eche one;
Remember with what bitter teares
To mee thou madest thy moane.
Convay me to some secrett place
And marry me with speede;
Or with thy rapyer end my life,
Ere further shame proceede.'
'Alacke! my beauteous love,' quoth hee,
'My joye and only dear,
Which way can I convay thee hence,
When dangers are so near?
Thy friends are all of hye degree,
And I of meane estate;
Full hard it is to gett thee forthe
Out of thy fathers gate.'
'Dread not thy life to save my fame,
For, if thou taken bee,
My selfe will step betweene the swords,
And take the harme on mee:
Soe shall I scape dishonor quite,
And if I should be slaine,
What could they say but that true love
Had wrought a ladyes bane.
'But feare not any further harme;
My selfe will soe devise
That I will ryde away with thee
Unknowen of mortall eyes;
Disguised like some pretty page
Ile meet thee in the darke,
And all alone Ile come to thee
Hard by my fathers parke.'
'And there,' quoth hee, 'Ile meete my deare,
If God soe lend me life,
On this day month without all fayle
I will make thee my wife.'
Then with a sweet and loving kisse
They parted presentlye,
And att their partinge brinish teares
Stoode in eche others eye.
Att length the wished day was come
On which this beauteous mayd,
With longing eyes and strange attire,
For her true lover stayd.
When any person shee espyed
Come ryding ore the plaine,
She hop'd it was her owne true love;
But all her hopes were vaine.
Then did shee weepe and sore bewayle
Her most unhappy fate;
Then did shee speake these woefull words,
As succourless she sate;
'O false, forsworne, and faithlesse man,
Disloyall in thy love,
Hast thou forgott thy promise past
And wilt thou perjured prove?
'And hast thou now forsaken mee
In this my great distresse,
To end my dayes in open shame,
Which thou mightst well redresse?
Woe worth the time I eer believ'd
That flattering tongue of thine;
Wold God that I had never seene
The teares of thy false eyne.'
And thus with many a sorrowful sigh
Homewarde shee went againe;
Noe rest came in her waterye eyes,
Shee felt such privye paine.
In travail strong shee felt that night,
With many a bitter throwe;
What woefull paines shee then did feel
Doth eche good woman knowe.
Shee called up her waiting mayd
That lay at her bedds feete,
Who, musing at her mistress woe,
Began full fast to weepe.
'Weepe not,' said shee, 'but shutt the dores
And windowes round about,
Let none bewray my wretched state,
But keepe all persons out.'
'O mistress, call your mother deare,
Of women you have neede,
And of some skilfull midwifes helpe
That better may you speed.'
'Call not my mother for thy life,
Nor fetch no woman here;
The midwifes helpe comes all too late,
My death I doe not feare.'
With that the babe sprang from her wombe
No creature being nye,
And with one sighe, which brake her hart,
This gentle dame did dye.
The lovely litle infant younge,
The mother being dead,
Resigned its new received breath
To him that had it made.
Next morning came her own true love,
Affrighted at the newes,
And he for sorrow slew himselfe,
Whom eche one did accuse.
The mother with her new borne babe
Were laide both in one grave;
Their parents overworne with woe,
No joy thenceforth cold have.
Take heed,you dayntye damsells all,
Of flattering words beware,
And to the honour of your name
Have an especial care.
Too true, alas! this story is,
As many one can tell;
By others harmes learne to be wise,
And you shall do full well.
Anonymous Olde English
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