Classic Poem

Alle that beth of herte trewe
A stounde herkneth to my song:
Of del that Deth hath dight us newe,
That maketh me sike and sorewe among;
Of a knight that wes so strong,
Of wham God hath don his wille.
Me thuncheth that Deth hath don us wrong
That he so sone shall ligge stille.

All Englond aghte for to knowe
Of wham that song is that I singe:
Of Edward King that lith so lowe,
Yent all this world his nome con springe;
Trewest mon of alle thinge,
And in werre war and wis.
For him we aghte oure honden wringe —
Of Christendome he ber the pris.

Before that oure King wes ded
He spek ase mon that wes in care:
" Clerkes, knightes, barouns", he saide,
" I charge ou by oure sware
That ye to Engelonde be trewe.
I deye — I ne may liven na more.
Helpeth my sone and crowneth him newe,
For he is nest to ben icore."

The messager to the Pope com
And seyde that oure King was ded.
His owne hond the lettre he nom —
Iwis, his herte wes full gret.
The Pope himself the lettre redde,
And spek a word of gret honour:
" Alas!" he seide, " is Edward ded?
Of Christendome he ber the flour."

The Pope to his chaumbre wende:
For del ne mighte he speke na more;
And after cardinals he sende,
That muche couthen of Christes lore,
Bothe the lasse and eke the more,
Bed hem bothe rede and singe.
Gret del me mighte se thore,
Mony mon his honde wringe.

The Pope of Peyters stod at his Masse,
With ful gret solempnete,
Ther me con the soule blesse.
King Edward, honoured thou be;
God lene thy sone, come after thee,
Bringe to ende that thou hast begonne —
The Holy Crois, imad of tree,
So fain thou woldest it han iwonne.

Jerusalem, thou hast ilore
The flour of all chivalerye,
Now King Edward liveth na more.
Alas! that he yet shulde deye.
He wolde ha rered up full heye
Oure baners that beth broght to grounde.
Well longe we mowe clepe and crye,
Er we a such king han ifounde.

Now is Edward of Carnarvan
King of Engelond all aplight.
God lete him ner be worse man
Then his fader, ne lasse of might
To holden his pore men to right,
And understonde good consail,
All Engelond for to wisse and dight.
Of gode knightes darh him nout fail.

Thah my tonge were mad of stel,
And mine herte iyote of bras,
The godnesse might I never telle
That with King Edward was.
King, as thou art cleped, " Conquerour",
In uch bataille thou hadest pris.
God bringe thy soule to the honour
That ever wes and ever is,
That lesteth ay withouten ende,
Bidde we God and oure Ledy
To thilke blisse Jesus us sende.

Alle þat beoþ of huerte trewe
A stounde herkneþ to my song:
Of duel þat deþ haþ diht us newe,
þat makeþ me syke ant sorewe among;
Of a knyht þat wes so strong,
Of wham God haþ don ys wille.
Me þuncheþ þat deþ haþ don us wrong
þat he so sone shal ligge stille.

All Englond ahte forte knowe
Of wham þat song is þat Y synge:
Of Edward, kyng þat liþ so lowe,
Gent all þis world is nome con sprynge;
Trewest mon of alle þinge,
Ant in werre war ant wys.
For him we ahte oure honden wrynge
Of Christendome he ber þe pris.

Before þat oure kyng wes ded
He spek ase mon þat wes in care:
" Clerkes, knyhtes, barouns", he sayde,
" Y charge ou by oure sware
þat ge to Engelonde be trewe.
Y dege, Y ne may lyven na more:
Helþeþ mi sone ant crouneþ him newe,
For he is nest to buen ycore.

Ich biqueþe myn herte aryht,
þat hit be write at mi devys,
Over þe see þat hue be diht,
Wiþ fourscore knyhtes al of pris
In were þat buen war ant wys,
Agein þe heþene forte fyhte
To wynne þe crois þa lowe lys;
Myself Ycholde gef þat Y myhte."

King of Fraunce, þou hevedest sunne,
þat þou þe counsail woldest fonde
To latte þe wille of Kyng Edward
To wende to þe Holy Londe:
þat oure kyng hede take on honde
Al Engelond to geme ant wysse
To wenden into þe Holy Londe
To wynnen us heveriche blisse.

þe messager to þe Pope com,
Ant seyde þat oure King was ded.
Ys oune hond þe lettre he nom —
Ywis, is herte wes ful gret.
þe Pope himself þe lettre redde,
Ant spec a word of gret honour:
" Alas!" he seide, " Is Edward ded?
Of Christendome he ber þe flour."

þe Pope to is chaumbre wende,
For del ne mihte he speke namore;
Ant after cardinals he sende,
þat muche couþen of Christes lore
Boþe þe lasse ant eke þe more,
Bed hem boþe rede ant synge.
Gret deol me myhte se þore,
Mony mon is honde wrynge.

þe Pope of Peyters stod at is masse,
Wiþ ful gret solempnete,
þer me con þe soule blesse —
" King Edward, honoured þou be.
God lene þy sone, come after þe,
Brynge to ende þat þou hast bygonne:
þe holy crois, ymad of tre,
So fain þou woldest hit han ywonne.

Jerusalem, þou hast ilore
þe flour of al chivalerie
Nou King Edward liveþ na more.
Alas! þat he get shulde deye,
He wolde ha rered up ful heyge
Oure baners þat bueþ broht to grounde.
Wel longe we mowe clepe ant crye
Er we a such king han yfounde.

Nou is Edward of Carnarvan
King of Engelond al aplyht.
God lete him ner be worse man
þen is fader, ne lasse of myht:
To holden is pore men to ryht,
Ant understonde good consail,
Al Engelond forte wisse ant diht;
Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.
þah mi tonge were mad of stel,
Ant min herte ygote of bras,
þe godnesse might Y never telle
þat wiþ King Edward was.
King, as þou art cleped conquerour,
In uch bataille þou hadest pris,
God brynge þi soule to þe honour
þat ever wes ant ever ys,
þat lesteþ ay wiþouten ende.
Bidde we God ant oure Ledy,
To bilke blisse Jesus us sende. Amen.