Classic Poem

Ich herde men upon mold make muche mone
How he beeth y-tened of here tilyinge:
Goode yeres and corn bothe beeth a-gone;
Ne kepeth here no sawe ne no song singe.
Now we mote worche — n'is ther non other wone;
May ich no lengere live with my lesinge.
Yet ther is a bitterer bit to the bone,
For ever the forthe peny mot to the Kinge.

Thus we carpeth for the King and carieth ful colde,
And weneth for to kevere and ever beeth a-cast;
Whoso hath any good hopeth he nought to holde,
Bute ever the levest we leseth alast.

Lither is to lesen ther-as litel is,
And haveth manye hinen that hopieth ther-to:
The hayward heteth us harm to habben of his;
The bailif bockneth us bale and weneth wel do;
The wodeward waiteth us wo that loketh under ris —
Ne may us rise no rest, riches, ne ro.
Thus me pileth the pore that is of lite pris:
Nede in swot and in swink swinde mot swo.

Nede he mot swinde, though he had swore,
That n'ath nought an hood his hed for to hide.
Thus wil walketh in land and lawe is forlore,
And al is piked of the pore the prikyares pride.

Thus me pileth the pore and piketh ful clene;
The riche men raimeth withouten any right;
Her landes and her ledes liggeth ful lene
Thurgh bidding of bailifs such harm hem hath hight.
Men of religioun me halt hem ful hene,
Baroun and bonde, the clerc and the knight.
Thus wil walketh in land and wondred is wene,
Falsshipe fatteth and marreth with might.

Stant stille i the stede and halt him ful sturne
That maketh beggres go with burden and bagges.
Thus we beeth hunted from hale to hurne;
That er werede robes now wereth ragges.

Yet cometh budeles with ful muche bost:
" Greithe me silver to the grene wax;
Thou art writen i my writ — that thou wel wost!" —
Mo than ten sithen told I my tax.
" Thenne mot ich habbe hennen arost,
Fair on fish-day launprey and lax;
Forth to the chepen!" — geineth no chost,
Though I selle my bil and my borstax.

Ich mot legge my wed wel if I wille,
Other selle my corn on gras that is grene.
Yet I shal be foul cherl, though he han the fille;
That ich alle yer spare thenne I mot spene.

Nede I mot spene that I spared yore;
Ayain thes cachereles come thus I mot care.
Cometh the maister budel brust as a bore,
Saith he wille my bigging bringe ful bare.
Mede I mot minten — a mark other more —
Though ich at the set day selle my mare.
Thus the grene wax us greveth under gore,
That me us hunteth as hound doth the hare.

He us hunteth as hound hare doth on hille;
Sithe I took to the land such tene me was taught.
N'abbeth ne'r budeles boded her fille,
For he may scape and we aren ever caught.

Thus I kippe and cache cares ful colde,
Sithe I counte and cot hade to kepe.
To seche silver to the King I my seed solde:
Forthy my land leye lith and lerneth to slepe.
Sithe he my faire fegh fette i my folde,
When I thenk o my wele wel nigh I wepe.
Thus bredeth manye beggares bolde,
And our rye is roted and ruls er we repe.

Ruls is our rye and roted in the stree,
For wickede wederes, by brokes and by brinke.
Ther wakeneth in the world wondred and wee —
As good is swinden anon as so for to swinke!