In the thirteenth century political poems were written chiefly in Latin or French. In the fourteenth century a steadily growing tendency to use English witnesses the increased interest of the people in politics and social questions. The fullest collections are those edited by T. Wright, Political Songs of England (John to Edward II), Camden Society, 1839; and Political Poems and Songs (Edward III to Richard III), Rolls Series, 2 vols., 1859-61. The selections A and B are from the poems of Laurence Minot, of which the best edition is the third by J. Hall, Oxford 1914. Minot was a better patriot than a poet, and his boisterous contempt for the Scots and French reflects the spirit of England in the early days of Edward III's greatness. The empty phrases in which the anonymous piece C abounds do not disguise a note of despair. The long war with France was becoming more and more hopeless. The plague that added to its miseries had carried off Henry, first Duke of Lancaster, in 1361. The Black Prince, to whom the nation looked for guidance, had died in 1376. The inglorious old age of Edward III ended in the following year. But there remained the hope, soon to be falsified, that the boy king Richard II would steer the ship of state to safety. D is the earliest text of the letter which John Ball addressed to the Essex members of the Great Society of Peasants on the eve of the revolt of 1381. It shows how deep an impression the characters and allegorical form of Piers Plowman had made on the oppressed serfs and labourers, and it gives some idea of the vague and incoherent thinking that brought ruin on their enterprise. Ball, who had defied established authority all his life, was freed from prison by the rebels, became a ringleader, and preached to their assembly on Blackheath a famous sermon with the text: When Adam dalf, and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman? A few weeks later he was executed by sentence of Lord Chief Justice Tressilian, who had been charged by the King to take vengeance on the rebels. The distich E sums up briefly the history of a year which turned moderate men against Richard II. A fuller contemporary picture of the events that led to his deposition is found in the alliterative poem Richard the Redeles, attributed by Skeat to the author of Piers Plowman.
A. ON THE SCOTS (ABOUT 1333). BY LAURENCE MINOT. MS. Cotton Galba E. ix (about 1425), f. 52 a. Now for to tell ?ou will I turn Of batayl of Banocburn Skottes out of Berwik and of Abirdene At Þe Bannokburn war ?e to kene; Þare slogh ?e many sakles, als it was sene, And now has King Edward wroken it, I wene. It es wrokin, I wene, wele wurth Þe while! 5 War ?it with Þe Skottes for Þai er ful of gile! Whare er ?e Skottes of Saint Iohnes toune? Þe boste of ?owre baner es betin all doune. When ?e bosting will bede, Sir Edward es boune For to kindel ?ow care, and crak ?owre crowne. 10 He has crakked ?owre croune, wele worth Þe while Schame bityde Þe Skottes, for Þai er full of gile! Skottes of Striflin war steren and stout, Of God ne of gude men had Þai no dout. Now haue Þai, Þe pelers, priked obout, 15 Bot at Þe last Sir Edward rifild Þaire rout. He has rifild Þaire rout, wele wurth Þe while! Bot euer er Þai vnder bot gaudes and gile. Rughfute riueling, now kindels Þi care; Berebag with Þi boste, Þi biging es bare; 20 Fals wretche and forsworn, whider wiltou fare? Busk Þe vnto Brig, and abide Þare. Þare, wretche, saltou won, and wery Þe while; Þi dwelling in DondÉ es done for Þi gile. Þe Skottes gase in Burghes and betes Þe stretes; 25 Al Þise Inglis men harmes he hetes; Fast makes he his mone to men Þat he metes, Bot fone frendes he findes Þat his bale betes. Fune betes his bale, wele wurth Þe while! He vses al threting with gaudes and gile. 30 Bot many man thretes and spekes ful ill Þat sum tyme war better to be stane—still. Þe Skot in his wordes has wind for to spill, For at Þe last Edward sall haue al his will. He had his will at Berwik, wele wurth Þe while! 35 Skottes broght him Þe kayes,—bot get for Þaire gile.
B. THE TAKING OF CALAIS (1347). BY LAURENCE MINOT. MS. Cotton Galba E. ix (about 1425), f. 55 b. How Edward als Þe romance sais Held his sege bifor Calais. Calays men, now mai ?e care, And murni<n>g mun ?e haue to mede; Mirth on mold get ?e no mare, Sir Edward sall ken ?ow ?owre crede. Whilum war ?e wight in wede 5 To robbing rathly for to ren; Mend ?ow sone of ?owre misdede: ?owre care es cumen, will ?e it ken. Kend it es how ?e war kene Al Inglis men with dole to dere. 10 Þaire gudes toke ?e al bidene, No man born wald ?e forbere. ?e spared noght with swerd ne spere To stik Þam, and Þaire gudes to stele. With wapin and with ded of were 15 Þus haue ?e wonnen werldes wele. Weleful men war ?e iwis, Bot fer on fold sall ?e noght fare: A bare sal now abate ?owre blis And wirk ?ow bale on bankes bare. 20 He sall ?ow hunt, als hund dose hare, Þat in no hole sall ?e ?ow hide; For all ?owre speche will he noght spare, Bot bigges him right by ?owre side. Biside ?ow here Þe bare bigins 25 To big his boure in winter tyde, And all bityme takes he his ines With semly se<r>gantes him biside. Þe word of him walkes ful wide— Iesu saue him fro mischance! 30 In bataill dar he wele habide Sir Philip and Sir Iohn of France. Þe Franche men er fers and fell, And mase grete dray when Þai er dight; Of Þam men herd slike tales tell, 35 With Edward think Þai for to fight, Him for to hald out of his right, And do him treson with Þaire tales: Þat was Þaire purpos, day and night, Bi counsail of Þe Cardinales. 40 Cardinales with hattes rede War fro Calays wele thre myle; Þai toke Þaire counsail in Þat stede How Þai might Sir Edward bigile. Þai lended Þare bot litill while 45 Till Franche men to grante Þaire grace: Sir Philip was funden a file, He fled and faght noght in Þat place. In Þat place Þe bare was blith, For all was funden Þat he had soght. 50 Philip Þe Valas fled ful swith With Þe batail Þat he had broght. For to haue Calays had he thoght All at his ledeing, loud or still; Bot all Þaire wiles war for noght: 55 Edward wan it at his will. Lystens now, and ?e may lere, Als men Þe suth may vnderstand, Þe knightes Þat in Calais were Come to Sir Edward sare wepeand. 60 In kirtell one, and swerd in hand, And cried, 'Sir Edward, Þine <we> are. Do now, lord, bi law of land Þi will with vs for euermare'. Þe nobill burgase and Þe best 65 Come vnto him to haue Þaire hire. Þe comun puple war ful prest Rapes to bring obout Þaire swire. Þai said all: 'Sir Philip, oure syre, And his sun, Sir Iohn of France, 70 Has left vs ligand in Þe mire, And broght vs till Þis doleful dance. Our horses Þat war faire and fat Er etin vp ilkone bidene; Haue we nowÞer conig ne cat 75 Þat Þai ne er etin, and hundes kene Al er etin vp ful clene— Es nowther leuid biche ne whelp— Þat es wele on oure sembland sene, And Þai er fled Þat suld vs help.' 80 A knight Þat was of grete renowne— Sir Iohn de Viene was his name— He was wardaine of Þe toune And had done Ingland mekill schame. For all Þaire boste Þai er to blame, 85 Ful stalworthly Þare haue Þai streuyn. A bare es cumen to mak Þam tame, Kayes of Þe toun to him er gifen. Þe kaies er ?olden him of Þe ?ate,— Lat him now kepe Þam if he kun. 90 To Calais cum Þai all to late, Sir Philip, and Sir Iohn his sun. Al war ful ferd Þat Þare ware fun, Þaire leders may Þai barely ban. All on Þis wise was Calais won: 95 God saue Þam Þat it sogat wan!
C. ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD III, A.D. 1377. Bodleian MS. Vernon (about 1400), f. 4106. A! dere God, what mai Þis be, Þat alle Þing weres and wasteÞ awai? Frendschip is but a vanytÉ, VnneÞe hit dures al a day. Þei beo so sliper at assai, 5 So leof to han, and loÞ to lete, And so fikel in heore fai, Þat selden isei?e is sone for?ete. I sei hit not wiÞouten a cause, And Þerfore takes riht good hede, 10 For ?if ?e construwe wel Þis clause, I puit ?ou holly out of drede Þat for puire schame ?or hertes wol blede And ?e Þis matere wysli trete: He Þat was vr moste spede 15 Is selden iseye and sone for?ete. Sum tyme an Englisch schip we had, Nobel hit was and heih of tour, Þorw al Cristendam hit was drad, And stif wolde stande in vch a stour, 20 And best dorst byde a scharp schour, And oÞer stormes, smale and grete. Now is Þat schip, Þat bar Þe flour, Selden se?e and sone for?ete. Into Þat schip Þer longed a rooÞur 25 Þat steered Þe schip and gouerned hit; In al Þis world nis such anoÞur, As me ÞinkeÞ in my wit. Whyl schip and roÞur togeder was knit, Þei dredde nouÞer tempest, druy?e nor wete; 30 Nou be Þei boÞe in synder flit, Þat selden sey?e is sone for?ete. Scharpe wawes Þat schip has sayled, And sayed alle sees at auentur. For wynt ne wederes neuer hit fayled 35 Whil Þe roÞur mihte enduir. Þou? Þe see were rouh or elles dimuir, Gode hauenes Þat schip wolde gete. Nou is Þat schip, I am wel suir, Selde iseye and sone for?ete. 40 Þis goode schip I may remene To Þe chiualrye of Þis londe; Sum tyme Þei counted nou?t a bene Beo al Fraunce, ich vnderstonde. Þei tok and slou? hem with heore honde, 45 Þe power of Fraunce, boÞ smal and grete, And brou?t Þe king hider to byde her bonde: And nou riht sone hit is for?ete. Þat schip hadde a ful siker mast, And a sayl strong and large, 50 Þat made Þe gode schip neuer agast To vndertake a Þing of charge; And to Þat schip Þer longed a barge Of al Fraunce ?af nou?t a clete; To vs hit was a siker targe, 55 And now riht clene hit is for?ete. Þe roÞur was nouÞer ok ne elm,— Hit was Edward Þe Þridde, Þe noble kniht. Þe Prince his sone bar vp his helm, Þat neuer scoumfited was in fiht. 60 The Kyng him rod and rouwed ariht; Þe Prince dredde nouÞur stok nor strete. Nou of hem we lete ful liht: Þat selde is se?e is sone for?ete. Þe swifte barge was Duk Henri, 65 Þat noble kniht and wel assayed, And in his leggaunce worÞili He abod mony a bitter brayd. ?if Þat his enemys ou?t outrayed, To chastis hem wolde he not lete. 70 Nou is Þat lord ful lowe ileyd: Þat selde is se?e is sone for?ete. Þis gode Comunes, bi Þe rode! I likne hem to the schipes mast, Þat with heore catel and heore goode 75 Mayntened Þe werre boÞ furst and last, Þe wynd Þat bleu? Þe schip wiÞ blast Hit was gode pre?ers, I sei hit atrete. Nou is deuoutnes out icast, And mony gode dedes ben clen for?ete. 80 Þus ben Þis lordes ileid ful lowe: Þe stok is of Þe same rote; An ympe biginnes for to growe And ?it I hope schal ben vr bote, To holde his fomen vnder fote, 85 And as a lord be set in sete. Crist leue Þat he so mote, Þat selden ise?e be not for?ete! Weor Þat impe fully growe, Þat he had sarri sap and piÞ, 90 I hope he schulde be kud and knowe For conquerour of moni a kiÞ. He is ful lyflich in lyme and liÞ In armes to trauayle and to swete. Crist leeue we so fare him wiÞ 95 Þat selden se?e be neuer for?ete! And Þerfore holliche I ou rede, Til Þat Þis ympe beo fully growe, Þat vch a mon vp wiÞ Þe hede And mayntene him, boÞe hei?e and lowe. 100 Þe Frensche men cunne boÞe boste and blowe, And wiÞ heore scornes vs toÞrete, And we beoÞ boÞe vnkuynde and slowe, Þat selden se?e is sone for?ete. And Þerfore, gode sires, takeÞ reward 105 Of ?or douhti kyng Þat dy?ede in age, And to his sone, Prince Edward, Þat welle was of alle corage. Suche two lordes of hei? parage I not in eorÞe whon we schal gete; 110 And nou heore los biginneÞ to swage, Þat selde ise?e is sone for?ete.
D. JOHN BALL'S LETTER TO THE PEASANTS OF ESSEX, 1381. St. Albans MS. British Museum Royal 13. E. ix (about 1400), f. 287 a. Iohon Schep, som tyme Seynte Marie prest of ?ork, and now of Colchestre, greteth wel Iohan Nameles, and Iohan Þe Mullere, and Iohon Cartere, and biddeÞ hem Þat Þei bee war of gyle in borugh, and stondeth togidre in Godes name, and biddeÞ Peres Plou?man go to his werk, and chastise {05} wel Hobbe Þe Robbere, and takeÞ wiÞ ?ow Iohan Trewman, and alle hiis felawes, and no mo, and loke schappe ?ou to on heued, and no mo. Iohan Þe Mullere haÞ ygrounde smal, smal, smal; Þe Kynges sone of heuene schal paye for al. 10 Be war or ye be wo; KnoweÞ ?our freend fro ?our foo; Haueth ynow, and seith 'Hoo'; And do wel and bettre, and fleth synne, And sekeÞ pees, and hold ?ou Þerinne; 15 and so biddeÞ Iohan Trewman and alle his felawes.
E. ON THE YEAR 1390-1. St. John's College (Oxford) MS. 209, f. 57 a. The ax was sharpe, the stokke was harde, In the xiiii yere of Kyng Richarde.
|
  |
