Classic Poem

Ribbe ne rele ne spinne ich ne may
For joy that it is holiday.

Al this day ich han sought;
Spindel ne werve ne fond I nought;
To miche blisse ich am brought
Ayèn this high holiday.

Al unswope is oure flet,
And oure fire is unbet;
Oure rushen been unrepe yet
Ayèn this high holiday.

Ich moste fechen worten in;
Predele my kerchef under my chin—
Leve Jakke, lend me a pin
To predele me this holiday.

Now it draweth to the none,
And al my cherres been undone;
I moste a lite solàs my shone
To make hem douse this holiday.

I moste milken in this pail;
Ought me bred al this shail;
Yet is the dow under my nail
As ich knad this holiday.

Jakke wil bringe me onward in my way,
With me desire for to play;
Of my dame stant me non ay
On never a good holiday.

Jakke wil pay for my scot
A Sunday at the ale-scot;
Jakke wil souse wel my throt
Every good holiday.

Soone he wil take me by the hand,
And he wil legge me on the land
That al my buttockes been of sand
Upon this high holiday.

In he pult and out he drow,
And ever ich lay on him y-low:
‘By Godes deth, thou dest me wow
Upon this high holiday!’

Soone my wombe began to swelle
Also gret as a belle;
Durst I not my dame telle
What me betidde this holiday.