Classic Poem

Mon in the mone stond and strit;
On his bot-forke his burthen he bereth.
It is muche wonder that he na down slit—
For doute leste he falle he shoddreth and shereth.
When the forst freseth muche chele he bid.
The thornes beth kene, his hattren to-tereth.
Nis no wiht in the world that wot when he sit,
Ne, bote it be the hedge, whet wedes he wereth.

Whider trowe this mon ha the wey take?
He hath set his o fot his other toforen.
For non hihte that he hath ne siht me him ner shake:
He is the sloweste mon that ever wes iboren.
Wher he were o the feld pitchinde stake,
For hope of his thornes to dutten his doren,
He mot mid his twibil other trous make,
Other all his dayes werk ther were iloren.

This ilke mon upon heh whener he were,
Wher he were i'the mone boren and ifed,
He leneth on his forke ase a grey frere:
This crokede cainard sore he is adred.
It is mony day go that he was here.
Ichot of his ernde he nath nout isped.
He hath hewe sumwher a burthen of brere,
Tharefore sum hayward hath taken his wed.

Yef thy wed is itake, bring hom the trous,
Sete forth thine other fot, strid over sty.
We shule preye the hayward hom to our hous,
And maken him at eise for the maistry,
Drinke to him derly of full god bous,
And oure dame douse shall sitten him by.
When that he is dronke ase a dreint mous,
Thenne we schule borewe the wed ate baily.

This mon hereth me nout, thah ich to him crye:
Ichot the cherl is def—the Del him to-drawe!
Thah ich yeye upon heh, nulle nout hye:
The lostlase ladde con nout o lawe.
Hupe forth! Hubert, hosede pie.
Ichot th'art amarscled into the mawe.
Thah me tene with him that mine teth mye,
The cherl nul nout adown er the day dawe.