Classic Poem

Her biginyth the sege off Calays, in the yer off our Lord j. m' iiii.....

In Juyl, whan the sone schon,
Tres, levys, and herbis grene,
Wyth many sonder colowris,
And ffresch flowris that April mad,
Gan for to feynt and to fad
Of lusty colowris and of swete odowris;
And fruyte on tre both gret and smale
Gan for to rip and wex fulle pale;
Than comyth tyme off labowr.
To profit and to wirschip wyne
In armes, so ther be no treson inn,
Untruth, ne fals colowr.
The duk of Burgayn off grete prid
Mad gret assembille in landes wyd.
In Flanders, and in Breban,
Of his power and in chevalry
Of Burgayn and in Pikardye,
Of Henaw and off Holand:
A c.l. m 1 , and mo,
That weryne alle to ryd and go
To ber sper and schild,
And mak avant Calys to wyn,
And schuld dye that wer theryn,
Both man, woman, and chyld.
The wolles and the merchandyss,
And othir god with the ymprise,
They wold have a serteyne.
The walles they wold ber adowne,
Towr, castelle, and dongen,
Alle schuld be mad fulle playn.
And so with red baners displayed,
With odir in the bateyllys arayed,
They cum the towne abote;
Statly tentes anon they pygte,
Larg and long and gret of sygth;
It was a ryalle rowte.
Wyth gunnes gret, and other gret ordinance,
Them to help and to avane,
With many a prowd pavys,
Gayly peynted and stuffed welle,
Ribawdes armyd with iyrne and stele,
Was never better off devyce;
Ix. m l cokkes to crow at nygth,
And viii. m 1 cressetes to brene ligth;
Gret wonder to her and se,
How sone the had mad her logyng,
Defens off herth and dikyng;
Redier mygth non be.
The erle of Mortayne mad a diner,
And, " Felowys, be of good chere,
" Off no thyng hav we no dred;
" I trust to God to se that day,
" That, for alle the proud aray,
" Fulle low schalle thay lowth. "
The levetenant, ser Johan Raclyf,
That ever lovyd worschyp and dred repreve,
Kept fulle god governance.
And so did the baren off Dudley,
In the castelle, the soth to say,
Mad fulle good ordinance.
My lord Camoys at Bolyn-gate,
The bulwerkes he did undertak,
At no tyme wuld he fayle,
Nether late ne erly;
Yff any withowt wer so hardy
It onys to assayle.
At the Mylk-gate ser Johan Aston,
And ser Jefferey Warbulton,
With a many a hardy man,
The trompetes lowd they dyd blow,
That the duk mygth welle know
The wach whan yt bigan.
The porters kept the gattes full manly,
The gattes opyn continually,
To wate they wer not irk;
The trew sodiers both day and nythe
Lay on the walles in harnes brighe,
Hit was ther howss and kirk.
The burges and men wer full bown
For to defend the possession,
Hit longith to them off rygth;
The merchanttes wer ful redy
At all tymes and every skry;
Hyt was a full good sygth.
And so did the good comyns.
That had stuffed well the town
With the good and vitayle,
In town and feld to rid and go,
And all odur werkes to doo,
In all that mygth avayle.
The women, both yung and old,
Wyth stones stuffed every scaffold,
The spared not to swet ne swynk;
With boylyng cawdrens, both grett and smalle,
Yf they wold assaute the walle,
All hote to gev them drynk.
The furst day ther enmys prowd
Gan to skirmysch with schowtes lowd,
But countred they wer anon.
Gonners, to schew ther arte,
Into the town in many a parte
Schote many a fulle gret stone.
Thankyd be God and Mary myld,
The hurt nothir man, woman, ne chyld,
To the howsis thow they did harm.
Sent Barbara! than was the cry,
When the stone in the stone did fly;
They cowd non other charm.
And for the duk lay them no nere,
At the sowth-west corner
Off gonnes he had a song;
That anon he left that place,
And to the west end he mad a chace;
Hym thowth he bod to long.
Ther men mygth se archerys good
Cast from them both gown and hood,
The better for to schote;
That Frensch and Flemysch was ful fayn
To ther tentes to retorn ogayn,
They saw non othir boote.
And one amang, an Iyrysch man,
Uppone his hoby swyftly ran;
Hyt was a sportfulle sygthe,
How hys darttes he did schak;
And when him lyst to leve or tak,
They had fulle gret dispite.
Allso a hownd that did hyeghe go by,
That longid to the water-bayly,
Fulle swyftly wold he ren;
And every skyrmysch to travayle,
Man and hors he wold assayle,
Fulle welle he coude them kenne.
And so hit byfelle upon a Thyrsday,
The erle of Morteyn made a fray
At seynt Peturs on the playne;
And drove them to there tentys nere,
And toke many a prisonere,
And many off them wer slayn.
And after they com with gret navi,
With bolgit schipis ful craftly,
The havyn for to han schent,
At Friday; but on the morow,
Than began the dukes sorow,
Hys schypis when he saw brent.
And so after, within a whyle,
Drawyn adown was hys castell
With many a hardy man;
His men of armes were layd to grownd,
And sum askapid with dethys wond,
And few off them were tan.
The next morow, or yt was day,
Erly the duk fled oway,
And with hym they off Gant.
And after Bruges and Apres both
To folow after they wer not loth;
Thus kept they ther avaunt.
For they had very knowyng
Off the duk off Gloceturs cumyng,
Caleys to rescue.
Bycaus they bod not ther,
In Flanders he soght hem fer and ner,
That ever may they yt rew.
Only God, in whom ys all. . . . . .
Sav Caleys that ryall towne,
That ever yt mot wel cheve
Unto the crown of mery Yngland,
Whils that this world wyll stand,
That neany enmys ytt greve.
Lytelle wote the fool,
Who mygth ches,
What harm yt wer
God Caleys to lese.