Books: Playful Poems
H >>
Henry Morley >> Playful Poems
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10
And when from out the town they had got clear,
The Sumner said, "Here dwelleth an old witch,
That had as lief be tumbled in a ditch
And break her neck, as part with an old penny.
Nathless her twelve pence is as good as any,
And I will have it, though she lose her wits;
Or else I'll cite her with a score of writs:
And yet, God wot, I know of her no vice.
So learn of me, Sir Fiend: thou art too nice."
The Sumner clappeth at the widow's gate.
"Come out," he saith, "thou hag, thou quiver-pate:
I trow thou hast some friar or priest with thee."
"Who clappeth?" said this wife; "ah, what say ye?
God save ye, masters: what is your sweet will?"
"I have," said he, "of summons here a bill:
Take care, on pain of cursing, that thou be
To-morrow morn, before the Archdeacon's knee,
To answer to the court of certain things."
"Now, Lord," quoth she, "sweet Jesu, King of kings,
So help me, as I cannot, sirs, nor may:
I have been sick, and that full many a day.
I may not walk such distance, nay, nor ride,
But I be dead, so pricketh it my side.
La! how I cough and quiver when I stir! -
May I not ask some worthy officer
To speak for me, to what the bill may say?"
"Yea, certainly," this Sumner said, "ye may,
On paying--let me see--twelve pence anon.
Small profit cometh to myself thereon:
My master hath the profit, and not I.
Come--twelve pence, mother--count it speedily,
And let me ride: I may no longer tarry."
"Twelve pence!" quoth she; "now may the sweet Saint Mary
So wisely help me out of care and sin,
As in this wide world, though I sold my skin,
I could not scrape up twelve pence, for my life.
Ye know too well I am a poor old wife:
Give alms, for the Lord's sake, to me, poor wretch."
"Nay, if I quit thee then," quoth he, "devil fetch
Myself, although thou starve for it, and rot."
"Alas!" quoth she, "the pence I have 'em not."
"Pay me," quoth he, "or by the sweet Saint Anne,
I'll bear away thy staff and thy new pan
For the old debt thou ow'st me for that fee,
Which out of pocket I discharged for thee,
When thou didst make thy husband an old stag."
"Thou liest," quoth she; "so leave me never a rag,
As I was never yet, widow nor wife,
Summonsed before your court in all my life,
Nor never of my body was untrue.
Unto the devil, rough and black of hue,
Give I thy body, and the pan to boot."
And when this devil heard her give the brute
Thus in his charge, he stooped into her ear,
And said, "Now, Mabily, my mother dear,
Is this your will in earnest that ye say?"
"The devil," quoth she, "so fetch him cleanaway,
Soul, pan, and all, unless that he repent."
"Repent!" the Sumner cried; "pay up your rent,
Old fool; and don't stand preaching here to me.
I would I had thy whole inventory,
The smock from off thy back, and every cloth."
"Now, brother," quoth the devil, "be not wroth;
Thy body and this pan be mine by right,
And thou shalt straight to hell with me to-night,
Where thou shalt know what sort of folk we be,
Better than Oxford university."
And with that word the fiend him swept below,
Body and soul. He went where Sumners go.
CHAUCER'S REVE'S TALE
MODERNISED BY R. H. HORNE.
THE REVE'S PROLOGUE.
When all had laughed at this right foolish case
Of Absalom and credulous Nicholas, {49}
Diverse folk diversely their comments made.
But, for the most part, they all laughed and played,
Nor at this tale did any man much grieve,
Unless indeed 'twas Oswald, our good Reve.
Because that he was of the carpenter craft,
In his heart still a little ire is left.
He gan to grudge it somewhat, as scarce right;
"So aid me!" quoth he; "I could such requite
By throwing dust in a proud millers eye,
If that I chose to speak of ribaldry.
But I am old; I cannot play for age;
Grass-time is done--my fodder is now forage;
This white top sadly writeth mine old years;
Mine heart is also mouldy'd as mine hairs:
And since I fare as doth the medlar tree,
That fruit which time grows ever the worse to be
Till it be rotten in rubbish and in straw.
"We old men, as I fear, the same lot draw;
Till we be rotten can we not be ripe.
We ever hop while that the world will pipe;
For in our will there sticketh ever a nail,
To have a hoary head and a green tail,
As hath a leek; for though our strength be lame,
Our will desireth folly ever the same;
For when our climbing's done, our words aspire;
Still in our ashes old is reeking fire. {50}
"Four hot coals have we, which I will express:
Boasting, lying, anger, and covetousness.
These burning coals are common unto age,
Our old limbs well may stumble o'er the stage,
But will shall never fail us, that is sooth.
Still in my head was always a colt's tooth,
As many a year as now is passed and done,
Since that my tap of life began to run.
For certainly when I was born, I trow,
Death drew the tap of life, and let it flow;
And ever since the tap so fast hath run,
That well-nigh empty now is all the tun.
The stream of life but drips from time to time;
The silly tongue may well ring out and chime
Of wretchedness, that passed is of yore:
With aged folk, save dotage, there's nought more."
When that our Host had heard this sermoning,
He gan to speak as lordly as a king;
And said, "Why, what amounteth all this wit?
What! shall we speak all day of Holy Writ?
The devil can make a steward fit to preach,
Or of a cobbler a sailor, or a leech.
Say forth thy tale; and tarry not the time.
Lo Deptford! and the hour is half-way prime:
Lo Greenwich! there where many a shrew loves sin -
It were high time thy story to begin."
"Now, fair sirs," quoth this Oswald, the old Reve,
"I pray you all that you yourselves ne'er grieve,
Though my reply should somewhat fret his nose;
For lawful 'tis with force, force to oppose.
This drunken Miller hath informed us here
How that some folks beguiled a carpenter -
Perhaps in scorn that I of yore was one.
So, by your leave, him I'll requite anon.
In his own churlish language will I speak,
And pray to Heaven besides his neck may break.
A small stalk in mine eye he sees, I deem,
But in his own he cannot see a beam.
THE REVE'S TALE.
At Trumpington, near Cambridge, if you look,
There goeth a bridge, and under that a brook,
Upon which brook there stood a flour-mill;
And this is a known fact that now I tell.
A Miller there had dwelt for many a day;
As any peacock he was proud and gay.
He could pipe well, and fish, mend nets, to boot,
Turn cups with a lathe, and wrestle well, and shoot.
A Norman dirk, as brown as is a spade,
Hung by his belt, and eke a trenchant blade.
A jolly dagger bare he in his pouch:
There was no man, for peril, durst him touch.
A Sheffield clasp-knife lay within his hose.
Round was his face, and broad and flat his nose.
High and retreating was his bald ape's skull:
He swaggered when the market-place was full.
There durst no wight a hand lift to resent it,
But soon, this Miller swore, he should repent it.
A thief he was, forsooth, of corn and meal,
A sly one, too, and used long since to steal.
Disdainful Simkin was he called by name.
A wife he had; of noble kin she came:
The rector of the town her father was.
With her he gave full many a pan of brass,
That Simkin with his blood should thus ally.
She had been brought up in a nunnery;
For Simkin ne'er would take a wife, he said,
Unless she were well tutored and a maid,
To carry on his line of yeomanry:
And she was proud and pert as is a pie.
It was a pleasant thing to see these two:
On holidays before her he would go,
With his large tippet bound about his head;
While she came after in a gown of red,
And Simkin wore his long hose of the same.
There durst no wight address her but as dame:
None was so bold that passed along the way
Who with her durst once toy or jesting play,
Unless he wished the sudden loss of life
Before Disdainful Simkin's sword or knife.
(For jealous folk most fierce and perilous grow;
And this they always wish their wives to know.)
But since that to broad jokes she'd no dislike
She was as pure as water in a dyke,
And with abuse all filled and froward air.
She thought that ladies should her temper bear,
Both for her kindred and the lessons high
That had been taught her in the nunnery.
These two a fair and buxom daughter had,
Of twenty years; no more since they were wed,
Saving a child, that was but six months old;
A little boy in cradle rocked and rolled.
This daughter was a stout and well-grown lass,
With broad flat nose, and eyes as grey as glass.
Broad were her hips; her bosom round and high;
But right fair was she here--I will not lie.
The rector of the town, as she was fair,
A purpose had to make her his sole heir,
Both of his cattle and his tenement;
But only if she married as he meant.
It was his purpose to bestow her high,
Into some worthy blood of ancestry:
For holy Church's good must be expended
On holy Church's blood that is descended;
Therefore he would his holy Church honour,
Although that holy Church he should devour.
Great toll and fee had Simkin, out of doubt,
With wheat and malt, of all the land about,
And in especial was the Soler Hall -
A college great at Cambridge thus they call -
Which at this mill both wheat and malt had ground.
And on a day it suddenly was found,
Sick lay the Manciple of a malady;
And men for certain thought that he must die.
Whereon this Miller both of corn and meal
An hundred times more than before did steal;
For, ere this chance, he stole but courteously,
But now he was a thief outrageously.
The Warden scolded with an angry air;
But this the Miller rated not a tare:
He sang high bass, and swore it was not so!
There were two scholars young, and poor, I trow,
That dwelt within the Hall of which I say.
Headstrong they were and lusty for to play;
And merely for their mirth and revelry,
Out to the Warden eagerly they cry,
That be should let them, for a merry round,
Go to the mill and see their own corn ground,
And each would fair and boldly lay his neck
The Miller should not steal them half a peck
Of corn by sleight, nor by main force bereave.
And at the last the Warden gave them leave:
One was called John, and Allen named the other;
From the same town they came, which was called Strauther,
Far in the North--I cannot tell you where.
This Allen maketh ready all his gear,
And on a horse the sack he cast anon:
Forth go these merry clerks, Allen and John,
With good sword and with buckler by their side.
John knew the way, and needed not a guide;
And at the mill the sack adown he layeth.
Allen spake first:- "Simon, all hail! in faith,
How fares thy daughter, and thy worthy wife?"
"Allen," quoth Simkin, "welcome, by my life;
And also John:- how now! what do ye here?"
"Simon," quoth John, "compulsion has no peer.
They who've nae lackeys must themselves bestir,
Or else they are but fools, as clerks aver.
Our Manciple, I think, will soon be dead,
Sae slowly work the grinders in his head;
And therefore am I come with Allen thus,
To grind our corn, and carry it hame with us:
I pray you speed us, that we may be gone."
Quoth Simkin, "By my faith it shall be done;
What will ye do while that it is in hand?"
"Gude's life! right by the hopper will I stand,"
(Quoth John), "and see how that the corn goes in.
I never yet saw, by my father's kin,
How that the hopper waggles to and fro."
Allen continued,--"John, and wilt thou so?
Then will I be beneath it, by my crown,
And see how that the meal comes running down
Into the trough--and that shall be my sport.
For, John, like you, I'm of the curious sort;
And quite as bad a miller--so let's see!"
This Miller smiled at their 'cute nicety,
And thought,--all this is done but for a wile;
They fancy that no man can them beguile:
But, by my thrift, I'll dust their searching eye,
For all the sleights in their philosophy.
The more quaint knacks and guarded plans they make,
The more corn will I steal when once I take:
Instead of flour, I'll leave them nought but bran:
The greatest clerks are not the wisest men.
As whilom to the wolf thus spake the mare:
Of all their art I do not count a tare.
Out at the door he goeth full privily,
When that he saw his time, and noiselessly:
He looketh up and down, till he hath found
The clerks' bay horse, where he was standing bound
Under an ivy wall, behind the mill:
And to the horse he goeth him fair and well,
And strippeth off the bridle in a trice.
And when the horse was loose he 'gan to race
Unto the wild mares wandering in the fen,
With WEHEE! WHINNY! right through thick and thin!
This Miller then returned; no word he said,
But doth his work, and with these clerks he played,
Till that their corn was well and fairly ground.
And when the meal is sacked and safely bound
John goeth out, and found his horse was gone,
And cried aloud with many a stamp and groan,
"Our horse is lost! Allen, 'od's banes! I say,
Up on thy feet!--come off, man--up, away!
Alas! our Warden's palfrey, it is gone!"
Allen at once forgot both meal and corn -
Out of his mind went all his husbandry -
"What! whilk way is he gone?" he 'gan to cry.
The Miller's wife came laughing inwardly,
"Alas!" said she, "your horse i' the fens doth fly
After wild mares as fast as he can go!
Ill-luck betide the man that bound him so,
And his that better should have knit the rein."
"Alas!" quoth John, "good Allen, haste amain;
Lay down thy sword, as I will mine also;
Heaven knoweth I am as nimble as a roe;
He shall not 'scape us baith, or my saul's dead!
Why didst not put the horse within the shed?
By the mass, Allen, thou'rt a fool, I say!"
Those silly clerks have scampered fast away
Unto the fen; Allen and nimble John:
And when the Miller saw that they were gone,
He half a bushel of their flour doth take,
And bade his wife go knead it in a cake.
He said, "I trow these clerks feared what they've found;
Yet can a miller turn a scholar round
For all his art. Yea, let them go their way!
See where they run! yea, let the children play:
They get him not so lightly, by my crown."
The simple clerks go running up and down,
With "Soft, soft!--stand, stand!--hither!--back ! take care!
Now whistle thou, and I shall keep him here!"
But, to be brief, until the very night
They could not, though they tried with all their might,
The palfrey catch; he always ran so fast:
Till in a ditch they caught him at the last.
Weary and wet as beasts amid the rain,
Allen and John come slowly back again.
"Alas," quoth John, "that ever I was born!
Now are we turned into contempt and scorn.
Our corn is stolen; fools they will us call;
The Warden, and our college fellows all,
And 'specially the Miller--'las the day!"
Thus plaineth John while going by the way
Toward the mill, the bay nag in his hand.
The Miller sitting by the fire they found,
For it was night: no further could they move;
But they besought him, for Heaven's holy love,
Lodgment and food to give them for their penny.
And Simkin answered, "If that there be any,
Such as it is, yet shall ye have your part.
My house is small, but ye have learned art;
Ye can, by arguments, well make a place
A mile broad, out of twenty foot of space!
Let's see now if this place, as 'tis, suffice;
Or make more room with speech, as is your guise."
"Now, Simon, by Saint Cuthbert," said this John,
"Thou'rt ever merry, and that's answered soon.
I've heard that man must needs choose o' twa things;
Such as he finds, or else such as he brings.
But specially I pray thee, mine host dear,
Let us have meat and drink, and make us cheer,
And we shall pay you to the full, be sure:
With empty hand men may na' hawks allure.
Lo! here's our siller ready to be spent!"
The Miller to the town his daughter sent
For ale and bread, and roasted them a goose;
And bound their horse; he should no more get loose;
And in his own room made for them a bed,
With blankets, sheets, and coverlet well spread:
Not twelve feet from his own bed did it stand.
His daughter, by herself, as it was planned,
In a small passage closet, slept close by:
It might no better be, for reasons why, -
There was no wider chamber in the place.
They sup, and jest, and show a merry face,
And drink of ale, the strongest and the best.
It was just midnight when they went to rest.
Well hath this Simkin varnished his hot head;
Full pale he was with drinking, and nought red.
He hiccougheth, and speaketh through the nose,
As with the worst of colds, or quinsy's throes.
To bed he goeth, and with him trips his wife;
Light as a jay, and jolly seemed her life,
So was her jolly whistle well ywet.
The cradle at her bed's foot close she set
To rock, or nurse the infant in the night.
And when the jug of ale was emptied quite,
To bed, likewise, the daughter went anon:
To bed goes Allen; with him also John.
All's said: they need no drugs from poppies pale,
This Miller hath so wisely bibbed of ale;
But as an horse he snorteth in his sleep,
And blurteth secrets which awake he'd keep.
His wife a burden bare him, and full strong:
Men might their routing hear a good furlong.
The daughter routeth else, par compagnie.
Allen, the clerk, that heard this melody,
Now poketh John, and said, "Why sleepest thou?
Heardest thou ever sic a song ere now?
Lo, what a serenade's among them all!
A wild-fire red upon their bodies fall!
Wha ever listened to sae strange a thing?
The flower of evil shall their ending bring.
This whole night there to me betides no rest.
But, courage yet, all shall be for the best;
For, John," said he, "as I may ever thrive,
To pipe a merrier serenade I'll strive
In the dark passage somewhere near to us;
For, John, there is a law which sayeth thus, -
That if a man in one point be aggrieved,
Right in another he shall be relieved:
Our corn is stolen--sad yet sooth to say -
And we have had an evil bout to-day;
But since the Miller no amends will make,
Against our loss we should some payment take.
His sonsie daughter will I seek to win,
And get our meal back--de'il reward his sin!
By hallow-mass it shall no otherwise be!"
But John replied, "Allen, well counsel thee:
The Miller is a perilous man," he said,
"And if he wake and start up from his bed,
He may do both of us a villainy."
"Nay," Allen said, "I count him not a flie!"
And up he rose, and crept along the floor
Into the passage humming with their snore:
As narrow was it as a drum or tub.
And like a beetle doth he grope and grub,
Feeling his way with darkness in his hands,
Till at the passage-end he stooping stands.
John lieth still, and not far off, I trow,
And to himself he maketh ruth and woe.
"Alas," quoth he, "this is a wicked jape!
Now may I say that I am but an ape.
Allen may somewhat quit him for his wrong:
Already can I hear his plaint and song;
So shall his 'venture happily be sped,
While like a rubbish-sack I lie in bed;
And when this jape is told another day,
I shall be called a fool, or a cokenay!
I will adventure somewhat, too, in faith:
'Weak heart, worse fortune,' as the proverb saith."
And up he rose at once, and softly went
Unto the cradle, as 'twas his intent,
And to his bed's foot bare it, with the brat.
The wife her routing ceased soon after that,
And woke, and left her bed; for she was pained
With nightmare dreams of skies that madly rained.
Eastern astrologers and clerks, I wis,
In time of Apis tell of storms like this.
Awhile she stayed, and waxeth calm in mind;
Returning then, no cradle doth she find,
And gropeth here and there--but she found none.
"Alas," quoth she, "I had almost misgone!
I well-nigh stumbled on the clerks a-bed:
Eh benedicite! but I am safely sped.
And on she went, till she the cradle found,
While through the dark still groping with her hand.
Meantime was heard the beating of a wing,
And then the third cock of the morn 'gan sing.
Allen stole back, and thought, "Ere that it dawn
I will creep in by John that lieth forlorn."
He found the cradle in his hand, anon.
"Gude Lord!" thought Allen, "all wrong have I gone!
My head is dizzy with the ale last night,
And eke my piping, that I go not right.
Wrong am I, by the cradle well I know:
Here lieth Simkin, and his wife also."
And, scrambling forthright on, he made his way
Unto the bed where Simkin snoring lay!
He thought to nestle by his fellow John,
And by the Miller in he crept, anon,
And caught him by the neck, and 'gan to shake,
And said, "Thou John! thou swine's head dull, awake!
Wake, by the mass! and hear a noble game,
For, by St. Andrew! to thy ruth and shame,
I have been trolling roundelays this night,
And won the Miller's daughter's heart outright,
Who hath me told where hidden is our meal:
All this--and more--and how they always steal;
While thou hast as a coward lain aghast!"
"Thou slanderous ribald!" quoth the Miller, "hast?
A traitor false, false lying clerk!" quoth he,
"Thou shalt be slain by heaven's dignity,
Who rudely dar'st disparage with foul lie
My daughter that is come of lineage high!"
And by the throat he Allen grasped amain;
And caught him, yet more furiously, again,
And on his nose he smote him with his fist!
Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast,
And on the floor they tumble, heel and crown,
And shake the house--it seemed all coming down.
And up they rise, and down again they roll;
Till that the Miller, stumbling o'er a coal,
Went plunging headlong like a bull at bait,
And met his wife, and both fell flat as slate.
"Help, holy cross of Bromeholm!" loud she cried,
"And all ye martyrs, fight upon my side!
In manus tuas--help!--on thee I call!
Simon, awake! the fiend on me doth fall:
He crusheth me--help!--I am well-nigh dead:
He lieth along my heart, and heels, and head.
Help, Simkin! for the false clerks rage and fight!"
Now sprang up John as fast as ever he might,
And graspeth by the dark walls to and fro
To find a staff: the wife starts up also.
She knew the place far better than this John,
And by the wall she caught a staff anon.
She saw a little shimmering of a light,
For at an hole in shone the moon all bright,
And by that gleam she saw the struggling two,
But knew not, as for certain, who was who,
Save that she saw a white thing in her eye.
And when that she this white thing 'gan espy,
She thought that Allen did a nightcap wear,
And with the staff she drew near, and more near,
And, thinking 'twas the clerk, she smote at full
Disdainful Simkin on his bald ape's skull.
Down goes the Miller, crying, "Harow, I die!"
These clerks they beat him well, and let him lie.
They make them ready, and take their horse anon,
And eke their meal, and on their way are gone;
And from behind the mill-door took their cake,
Of half a bushel of flour--a right good bake.
CHAUCER'S POEM OF THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE
MODERNISED BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
1.
The God of Love--ah, benedicite!
How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
For he of low hearts can make high, of high
He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
And hard hearts he can make them kind and free.
2.
Within a little time, as hath been found,
He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound;
Them who are whole in body and in mind
He can make sick,--bind can he and unbind
All that he will have bound, or have unbound.
3.
To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
Foolish men he can make them out of wise; -
For he may do all that he will devise;
Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.
4.
In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
Against him dare not any wight say nay;
To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.
5.
For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
Now against May shall have some stirring--whether
To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
At other time, methinks, in like degree.
6.
For now when they may hear the small birds' song,
And see the budding leaves the branches throng.
This unto their remembrance doth bring
All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing,
And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.
7.
And of that longing heaviness doth come,
Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home;
Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.
8.
In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now
Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day, -
How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.
9.
Such shaking doth the fever in me keep,
Through all this May that I have little sleep;
And also 'tis not likely unto me,
That any living heart should sleepy be
In which love's dart its fiery point doth steep.
10.
But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
I of a token thought which lovers heed;
How among them it was a common tale,
That it was good to hear the nightingale,
Ere the vile cuckoo's note be uttered.
11.
And then I thought anon as it was day,
I gladly would go somewhere to essay
If I perchance a nightingale might hear,
For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
And it was then the third night of the May.
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10