deeds are full of peril, and dear neither to God nor to God's house.
They would rather hear of a dance or of deeds of boasting and of pride
than any good of God in heaven, or other wisdom that may be named. In
folly is spent all that they get,—on their dress, their drink, and
their meat. And because of such things, I shall tell you what once
befell a minstrel. Saint Gregory tells this story:
A minstrel, a goliardys,[50] came once to a bishop's house, and asked
for charity. The porter let him enter. At meal time the board was laid;
and when the benison should have been said, this minstrel made melody
with music loud and high. By report, the bishop was a holy man. He sat
down at the table, and should have blessed the food, with a word, but
he was so disturbed by the noise of the minstrelsy that he did not say
grace, as he usually did, very devoutly.
The bishop complained sorely, and said to all those who were there that
he would not put the benison above the grace of charity. He saw well,
in spirit, that vengeance was approaching speedily, and said, "Give him
his alms, and let him go. Death approaches, which will slay him." The
minstrel received charity, and then departed, and as he passed out of
the gate, a stone fell down from the wall, and slew him there. That
betokened that God was not pleased with what the minstrel did, when he
disturbed the devotion of the good man.
This is told for the sake of gleemen, so that they will take some heed
as to where it is proper to make music, and also for the sake of those
who listen, so that they will not love minstrelsy too dearly, nor have
for it such affection that they will worship heaven's King the less.
I shall tell you what I have heard of this bishop, Saint Robert, whose
surname is Grossteste of Lincoln. He loved to hear the harp, for it
makes the wit of man keen. Next his chamber, beside his study, was his
harper's chamber. Many times, by night and by day, he found solace
in notes and lays. Some one asked him why he had such delight in
minstrelsy, and he told why he held the harper dear: "The virtue of the
harp will destroy the fiend's might, and rightly the harp is likened to
the cross. Another thing comforts me,—if God has given to a piece of
wood the power to make men hear so much joy, even more joy, there must
be where God Himself dwells. The harp often reminds me of the joy and
bliss where God is. Therefore, good men, you should learn when you hear
a gleeman, to worship God with all your might, according as David says
in the Psalter, 'in harp, in tabor, and in symphony, worship God; in
trumpets and psaltery, in stringed instruments and organs, and in bells
ringing, in all these worship heaven's King.' If you do thus, I say
boldly, you may hear your minstrelsy."
Translated by M. H. S.
SATIRE
THE SONG OF THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS
THE LAND OF COCKAYGNE
THE COMPLAINT OF THE HUSBANDMAN
SIR PENNY
THE SONG OF THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS[51]
Much argument is heard of late,
The subject I'll attempt to state,
A question for dispute, I fear,
That will hang on for many a year.
The student-folk of Paris town
(I speak of those in cap and gown,
Students of art, philosophy,—
In short, "the University,"
And not our old-time learned men)
Have stirred up trouble here again.
Nothing they'll gain, it seems to me,
Except more bitter enmity,
Till there is no peace, day or night.
Does such a state of things seem right?
To give his son a chance to stay
In Paris, growing wise each day,
Is some old peasant's one ambition.
To pay his bills and his tuition
The poor hard-working father slaves;
Sends him each farthing that he saves,
While he in misery will stay
On his scant plot of land to pray
That his hard toil may help to raise
His son to honor and to praise.
But once the son is safe in town
The story then reads upside down.
Forgetting all his pledges now,
The earnings of his father's plow
He spends for weapons, not for books.
Dawdling through city streets, he looks
To find some pretty, loitering wench,
Or idle brawl by tavern bench;
Wanders at will and pries about,
Till money fails and gown wears out.—
Then he starts fresh on the old round;
Why sow good seed on barren ground?
Even in Lent when men should do
Something pleasing in God's view,
Your students then elect to wear
For penitence, no shirts of hair,
But swaggering hauberks, as they sit
Drowning in drink their feeble wit;
While three or four of them excite
Four hundred students to a fight,
And close the University.
(Not such a great calamity!)
Yet, heavens, for one of serious mind
What life more pleasing can you find
Than earnest scholar's life may be?
More pains than precious gems has he,
And while he's struggling to grow wise,
Amusements he must sacrifice,—
Give up his feasting and his drinking,
And spend his time in sober thinking.
His life is just about as merry
As is a monk's in a monastery.
Why send a boy away to school
There to become an arrant fool?
When he should be acquiring sense,
He wastes his time and all his pence,
And to his friends brings only shame,
While they suppose him winning fame.
Translated by Marion E. Markley
THE LAND OF COCKAYGNE[52]
Far in the sea west of Spain is a land called Cockaygne. There is no
land except the kingdom of heaven its equal in happiness and goodness;
though paradise is joyful and bright, Cockaygne is still fairer. What
is there in paradise but grass and flowers and green branches? Though
joy and great pleasure are in paradise, yet there is no food but fruit;
there is no hall, no bower, no bench, and nothing but water to quench
one's thirst. Only two men live there, Enoch and Elias; a wretched life
must they lead where no other men dwell.
In Cockaygne is meat and drink, without care or trouble or toil. The
meat is dainty; the drink is pure wine at noon and at supper. This land
has no peer on earth; verily there is no place under heaven so full of
joy and bliss.
In that land is many a sweet sight; it is always day and never night;
there is no strife nor quarrel; there is no death, but only lasting
life; there is no lack of food nor dress; there is no angry man nor
woman; there is no serpent, wolf, nor fox, horse nor colt, ox nor cow;
there is no sheep nor swine nor goat nor steed nor stables. There
are no flies nor fleas nor other insects in town or bed or house, no
serpents nor snails, nor is there thunder, sleet, nor hail, storm,
rain, nor wind; there is no blind man nor woman, but everywhere is jest
and joy and glee. Well fares it with him who there may dwell.
Rivers flow there, wide and fair, of oil, of milk, of honey, and of
wine. Water serves there only two uses,—to look at, and to use for
washing. There are many kinds of fruit, and everywhere is solace and
delight.
There is a fair abbey of white monks and of gray; there are bowers and
halls; the walls are all of pasties, of flesh, of fish, and of rich
meats,—the very best a man may eat. Flour cakes are the shingles of
church, cloister, bower, and hall. The pinnacles are fat puddings, rich
food for princes and kings; men may eat as much as they please, without
any danger. All things are in common to both old and young, to strong
and weak, to meek and bold.
There is a cloister fair and light, broad and long and beautiful. All
the pillars of that cloister are of crystal, with bases and capitals
of green jasper and red coral. In the meadow is a tree, most pleasing
to the sight. The root is ginger and galingale; the shoots are all
of zedoary; the finest maces are the flowers; the rind is sweet
smelling cinnamon; and the fruit is clove of goodly taste. Cubebs are
not lacking, either. There are roses red of hue, and lilies, also,
fair to see. They never fade by day nor by night, this should be a
pleasant sight. There are four wells in the abbey, made of triacle
and aromatic plants, of balm and also of spiced wine, ever fed by
underground streams. Precious stones and gold are there, sapphire,
pearl, carbuncle, astrion, emerald, liguros and chrysoprase, beryl,
onyx and topaz, amethyst and chrysolite, chalcedony and epetite. There
are many birds,—the throstle, thrush, and nightingale, the lark and the
woodpecker, and other birds without number, that never cease singing
merrily day nor night.
More, however, there is to tell you; geese roasted on the spit fly to
that abbey and cry: "Geese, all hot, all hot." They bring plenty of
garlick, the best you could ever look for. The larks, that are familiar
food, light in a man's mouth, all stewed daintily and powdered with
clove and cinnamon. There is never any question of drink, but every one
takes enough, yet does not toil.
When the monks go to mass, all the glass windows turn to bright
crystal, to give the monks more light. When the masses are all said,
the crystal turns again to glass, in the state that it was before....
[The rest of the poem satirizes the morals of the monks.]
Translated by M. H. S.
THE COMPLAINT OF THE HUSBANDMAN[53]
I heard men upon earth make many a moan,
Of how they were harried in their task of tilling:
Good years and grain are both of them gone,
We enjoy here no tales, and have no song to sing.
Now we must work, no way else is known,
I may no longer live by my gleaning.
Yet even a bitterer demand has upgrown,
For ever the fourth penny goes to the king.
Thus we complain of the king and have cares that are cold;
Though we dream of recovery we are ever downcast.
He who has any goods which he hoped he could hold
Learns that what we love most we must lose at the last.
Loath are we to lose what little there is,
And we have our henchmen who will for pay sue.
The hayward[54] bodes harm if we have aught of his,
The bailiff[55] with blows shows how well he can do,
The woodward[56] awaits in the watched wilderness:
Neither riches nor rest will arise for us few.
Thus they pillage the poor, who have little of bliss,
And must sweat at their toil and waste away too.
He must needs waste away, whatever he swore,
Who hath not a hood his own head to hide.
Thus will walks in the land, and law is no more,
And picked from the poor is the persecutor's pride.
Thus they pillage the poor and pick them all clean,
And the rich men are ruling without any right;
Their lands and their people all lie very lean,
Through demands of the bailiffs such sorrows alight.
Men of religion[57] are abject and mean
As are baron and bondman,[58] the clerk and the knight.
Thus will walks in the land and sorrow is seen,
Falsehood grows fat and mars all with his might.
He stands still in a spot and shows a stern soul,
Who makes beggars wander with long staves and bags;
Thus we are hunted from hall and from hole,
And those who wore robes are now wearing rags.
And then come the beadles[59] with many a boast:
"Supply me with silver for the green wax,[60]
Thou art set down in my writ as thou thyself know'st,"
Yet more than ten times have I paid my tax.
Then I must furnish hens for the roast,
And fairly, each fish day, have lamprey and lax.[61]
If I go to the market, I lose, at the most,
Though I sell my bill[62] and my big axe.
I may place my pledge well if I will,
Or sell my corn when it's green as the grass;
Yet I am a foul churl, though they have their fill;
What I've saved all the year I must spend at this pass.
Needs must I spend what I've saved from of yore,
Against the coming of catchpoles I must take care;
The master beadle comes in like a brutish boar
And says he will make my dwelling all bare,
So then I must bribe him, with one mark or more,
Although I at the set day should sell my own mare;
Thus the green wax grieves us neath our garments poor,
So that men hunt us as hound does the hare.
They hunt us as hound does a hare on a hill;
Since I took to the land such woe I've been taught.
The beadles have never had quite all their fill,
For they slip away, and it's we who are caught.
Thus I catch and I carry cares that are cold,
Since I have had cottage and reckoning to keep.
To seek silver for the king, my seed I have sold,
And my land has lain fallow and learned how to sleep.
Since they took my fair cattle away from the fold,
When I think of old joys I am ready to weep;
Thus are bred so many of these beggars bold,
And our rye is rotten and rank ere we reap.
Rank is our rye and rotten in the straw,
Because of foul weather by brook and by shore;
Thus wakes in this world the worst woe men e'er saw,
As well waste all away, as work thus evermore.
Translated by M. H. S.
SIR PENNY[63]
On earth there is a little thing
That reigns as does the richest king,
In this and every land;
Sir Penny is his name, we're told,
He compels both young and old
To bow unto his hand.
Popes and kings and emperors,
Bishops, abbots, too, and priors,
Parson, priest, and knight,
Barons, earls, and dukes, also,
Gladly in his service go,
Both by day and night.
Sir Penny changes a man's mood
And makes him, often, don his hood
And rise and stand again.
Men honor him with reverence
And give utmost obedience
Unto that little swain.
In the king's court it is no gain
Against Sir Penny to complain,
So great is he in might;
He is so witty and so strong
That be a matter ever so wrong
He will make it right.
With Penny women may be won
By those men they once did shun,
As often may be seen;
Long with him they will not chide,
For he can help them trail aside,
In good scarlet and green.
He may buy both heaven and hell
And everything there is to sell,
Such grace he has on earth.
He may loose and he may bind;
The poor are ever put behind,
When he comes to a place.
When he begins to take control,
He makes meek the cruel soul
And weak who bold has been;
All men's needs are quickly sped,
Without pledge or bail to dread,
Where he is go-between.
The justices he makes so blind
They are unable right to find
Or even truth to see;
To give judgment they are loath,
If it should make Sir Penny wroth,
For dear to them is he.
Where strife was, Penny soon makes peace;
From anger he will bring release,
As long as men will spend;
Of foes he makes friends most true,
His counsel they will never rue
Who have him for friend.
That lord is set above us all
And richly served within the hall
At the festal board;
The more he gives men plenteously,
The more beloved always is he,
And, by a host, adored.
He makes many be forsworn
Who in body and soul are made forlorn
By following after him.
Other god they will not have,
Except that little and round knave,
To end their sorrows grim.
On him alone they set their hearts,
And no man from his love departs,
Neither for good nor ill.
All that he will on earth have done
Is granted soon by everyone
According to his will.
Penny is a good fellow;
Men greet him in deed and word, also,
Whenever he comes near;
He is not welcomed as a guest,
But always served with what is best,
A soft seat and good cheer.
Whoever falls in any need,
With Penny's help will win good speed,
Whatever may betide;
He that is Penny's friend, withal,
Shall have his will in steed and stall
When others are set aside.
Sir Penny gives men richest weeds,
And many men may ride his steeds
In this world so wide.
In every game and every play
The mastery is given aye
To Penny for his pride.
Sir Penny always wins the prize
Wherever towers and castles rise
By town or country way;
Without either spear or shield
He is the best in wood or field,
Most stalwart in the fray.
In every place this truth is seen,
Sir Penny rules both great and mean;
Most masterful is he;
And all is as he does command;
Against his will no man dare stand,
Neither on land or sea.
Sir Penny's counsel gives great aid
To those who have his law obeyed,
As the assizes show.
He lengthens life and saves from death,
But love him not o'er well, God saith,
For covetousness is woe.
If thou shouldst chance treasure to win,
Delight thee not too much therein,
Nor proud nor haughty be;
But spend all as a Christian can,
So that thou mayst love God and man
In perfect charity.
God grant us grace, with heart and will,
The goods that he is giving, still
Well and wisely to spend;
And our lives here so to lead,
That we may have His bliss for meed,
Ever without an end.
Translated by M. H. S.
LAY
SIR ORFEO
SIR ORFEO[64]