Classic Poem

Men may leue alle gamys
That saylen to seynt Jamys!
Ffor many a man hit gramys,
When they begyn to sayle.
Ffor when they hauve take the see,
At Sandwyche, or at Wynchylsee.
At Brystow, or where that hit bee.
Theyr hertes begyn to fayle.

Anone the mastyr commaundeth fast
To hys shyp-men in alle the hast,
To dresse hem sone about the mast,
Theyr takelyng to make.
With "howe! hissa!' then they cry,
"What, howe, mate! thow stondyst to ny,
Thy felow may nat hale the by';
Thus they begyn to crake.

A boy or tweyn anone up styen,
And ouerthwart the sayle-yerde lyen;--
"Y how! taylia!' the remenaunt cryen,
And pulle with alle theyr myght.
"Bestowe the boote, bote-swayne, anon,
That our pylgryms may pley theron;
For som ar lyke to cowgh and grone
Or hit be full mydnyght.

"Hale the bowelyne! now, vere the shete!--
Cooke, make redy anoon our mete,
Our pylgryms haue no lust to ete,
I pray god yeue hem rest!'
"Go to the helm! what, howe! no nere?
Steward, felow! A pot of bere!'
"Ye shalle have, sir, with good chere,
Anon alle of the best.'

'Y howe! trussa! hale in the brayles!
Thow halyst nat, be god, thow fayles!
O se howe welle owre good shyp sayles!'
And thus they say among.
"Hale in the wartake!' "Hit shal be done.'
"Steward! couer the boorde anone,
And set bred and salt thereone,
And tary nat to long.'

Then cometh oone and seyth, "be mery;
Ye shall haue a storme or a pery.'
"Holde thow thy pese! thow canst no whery,
Thow medlyst wondyr sore.'
Thys mene whyle the pylgryms ly,
And haue theyr bowlys fast theym by,
And cry aftyr hote maluesy,
"Thow helpe for to restore.'

And som wold haue a saltyd tost,
Ffor they myght ete neyther sode ne rost;
A man myght sone pay for theyr cost,
As for oo day or twayne.
Some layde theyr bookys on theyr kne,
And rad so long they myght nat se;--
"Allas! myne hede wolle cleue on thre!'
Thus seyth another certayne.

Then commeth owre owner lyke a lorde.
And speketh many a royall worde,
And dresseth hym to the hygh borde,
To see alle thyng be welle.
Anone he calleth a carpentere,
And byddyth hym bryng with hym hys gere,
To make the cabans here and there,
With many a febylle celle;

A sak of strawe were there ryght good,
Ffor som must lyg theym in theyr hood;
I had as lefe be in the wood,
Without mete or drynk;
For when that we shall go to bedde,
The pumpe was nygh oure beddes hede,
A man were as good to be dede
As smell thereof the stynk!