Classic Poem

As on a hill one eve sitting,
At our Lady's church much wondering,
The cunning handiwork so fine
Had well nigh dazzelèd mine eyne.
Quoth I—some cunning fairy hand
Y-reared this chapel in this land;
Full well I wot so fine Asight
Was not y-reared of mortal wight.
Quoth Truth—Thou lackest knowledging;
Thou, forsooth, not wottest of the thing.
A Reverend Father, William Canynge hight,
Y-rearèd up this chapel bright,
And eke another in the town
Where glassy bubbling Trym doth run.
Quoth I—no doubt, for all he's given,
His soul will certès go to heaven.
Yea—quoth Truth—then go thou home,
And see thou do as he hath done,
Quoth I—I doubt, that cannot be,
I have not gotten markès three.
Quoth Truth—As thou hast got, give aimsdeeds so;
Canynges and Gaunts could do no mo.