Classic Poem

It was upon a Cristemesse night
That twelve fooles a carolle dight,
In wodehed, as it were in cuntek;
They come to a town men calle Colbek.
The cherche of the town that they to come
Is of Saint Magne, that suffred martyrdome;
Of Saint Bukcestre it is alsò,
Saint Magnes sister, that they come to.
Here names of alle thus fond I write,
And as I wot now shul ye wite:
Here lodesman, that made hem glew,
Thus is write, he hight Gerlèw.
Twey maidens were in here covìne,
Maiden Merswinde and Wibessine.
Alle these come thider for that ènchesoun
Of the preestes doughter of the toun.
The preest hight Robert, as I can ame;
Azone hight his sone by name;
His doughter, that these men wulde have,
Thus is write, that she hight Ave.
Echone consented to o wil
Who shuld go Ave out to til;
They graunted echone out to sende
Bothe Wibessine and Merswinde.
These wommen yede and tolled her out
With hem to carollc the cherche about.
Bevune ordeined here carolling;
Gerlew endited what they shuld sing.
This is the carolle that they sunge,
As telleth the Latin tunge:
‘Equitabat Bevo per silvam frondosam,
Ducebat secum Merswindam formosam.
Quid stamus? cur non imus?’
‘By the leved wode rode Bevoline,
With him he ledde fair Merswine.
Why stande we? why go we nought?’
This is the carolle that Grisly wrought.
This song sunge they in the chercheyerd—
Of foly were they nothing afèrd—
Unto the matines were alle done,
And the messe shuld biginne sone.
The preest him revèst to beginne messe,
And they ne left ther-fore never the lesse,
But daunsed forth as they bigan—
For all the messe they ne blan.
The preest, that stood at the autère
And herd here noise and here bere,
Fro the auter down he nam
And to the cherche porche he cam
And said: ‘On Goddes behalve, I you forbede
That ye no lenger do swich dede;
But cometh in on fair manère
Goddes servise for to here,
And doth at Cristin mennes lawe:
Carolleth no more, for Cristes awe!
Worshippeth Him with alle your might
That of the Virgine was bore this night.’
For alle his bidding lefte they nought,
But daunsed forth as they thought.
The preest there-for was sore agreved:
He prayd God, that he on beleved,
And for Saint Magne, that He wulde so werche—
In whos worship sette was the cherche—
That swich a venjaunce were on hem sent,
Ar they out of that stede were went,
That they might ever right so wende
Unto that time twelvemonth ende
(In the Latine that I fond thore
He saith not ‘twelvemonth’ but ‘evermore’);
He cursed hem there alle same
As they caroled on here game.
As soone as the preest hadde so spoke
Every hand in other so fast was loke
That no man might with no wunder
That twelvemonthe parte hem asunder.
The preest yede in when this was done
And commaunded his sone Azòne
That he shulde go swithe after Ave,
Oute of that carolle algate to have.
But al to late that word was said,
For on hem alle was the venjaunce laid.
Azone wende wel for to spede;
Unto the carolle as swithe he yede;
His sister by the arm he hente,
And the arm fro the body wente;
Men wundred alle that there wore,
And merveile mowe ye here more,
For sethen he had the arm in hand,
The body yede forth caroland,
And nother the body ne the arm
Bledde never bloode, cold ne warm,
But was as drye, with al the haunche,
As of a stok were rive a braunche.
Azone to his fader went
And brought him a sory presènt:
‘Looke, fader,’ he said, ‘and have it here,
The arm of thy doughter dere
That was myn owne sister Ave,
That I wende I might a save.
Thy cursing now sene it es
With venjaunce on thy owne fles.
Felliche thou cursedest, and over-soone;
Thou askedest venjaunce: thou hast thy boone!’
You thar not aske if there was wo
With the preest and with many mo.
The preest that cursed for that daunce,
On some of his fil harde chaunce.
He tooke his doughter arm forlorn
And biried it on the morn;
The nexte day the arm of Ave
He fond it ligging above the grave.
He biried it another day,
And eft above the grave it lay.
The thridde time he biried it,
And eft was it cast out of the pit.
The preest wulde birie it no more:
He dredde the venjaunce ferly sore.
Into the cherche he bare the arme
For drede and doute of more harme;
He ordeined it for to be
That every man might with eye it see.
These men that yede so carolland
Alle that yere, hand in hand,
They never out of that stede yede,
Ne none might hem thenne lede.
There the cursing first bigan,
In that place aboute they ran,
That never ne felt they no werynes—
As many bodyes for going dos—
Ne mete ete, ne drank drinke,
Ne slepte onely alèpy winke.
Night ne day they wist of none,
When it was come, when it was gone;
Frost ne snow, hail ne raine,
Of colde ne hete, felte they no paine;
Heer ne nailes never grewe,
Ne solowed clothes, ne turned hewe;
Thunder ne lightning did hem no dere—
Goddes mercy did it fro hem were—
But sunge that song that the wo wrought:
‘Why stande we? why go we nought?’
What man shuld ther be in this live
That ne wulde it see and thider drive?
The Emperoure Henry come fro Rome
For to see this harde dome.
When he hem say, he wepte sore
For the mischefe that he say thore.
He did come wrightes for to make
Covering over hem, for tempest sake.
But that they wrought it was in vain,
For it come to no certàin;
For that they sette on o day,
On the tother down it lay.
Ones, twyes, thryes, thus they wrought,
And all here making was for nought.
Might no covering hile hem fro colde
Til time of mercy that Crist it wolde.
Time of grace fil thurgh His might
At the twelvemonth ende, on the Yole night.
The same houre that the preest hem band,
The same houre atwinne they wand;
That houre that he cursed hem inne,
The same houre they yede atwinne,
And as in twinkeling of an eye
Into the cherche gun they flye,
And on the pavement they fil alle downe
As they had be dede, or fal in a swoune.
Three days stil they lay echone,
That none stered other flesh or bone;
And at the three dayes ende
To life God graunted hem to wende.
They sette hem up and spak apert
To the parishe preest, sire Robèrt:
‘Thou art ensample and ènchesoun
Of oure long confusioun;
Thou maker art of oure travàile,
That is to many grete mervàile;
And thy travàile shalt thou soone ende,
For to thy long home soone shalt thou wende.’
Alle they rise that iche tide
But Ave: she lay dede beside.
Grete sorowe had her fader, her brother;
Merveile and drede had alle other:
I trow no drede of soule dede,
But with pine was brought the body dede.
The first man was the fader, the prest,
That deyd after the doughter nest.
This iche arme that was of Ave,
That none mighte leye in grave,
The Emperoure did a vessel werche
To do it in and hange in the cherche,
That alle men might see it and knawe,
And thenk on the chaunce when men it sawe.
These men that hadde go thus carolland
Alle the yere, fast hand in hand,
Though that they were then asunder,
Yet alle the worlde spake of hem wunder.
That same hopping that they first yede,
That daunce yede they thurgh land and lede;
And, as they ne might first be unbounde,
So eft togeder might they never be founde,
Ne might they never come ayain
Togeder to o stede, certàin.
Foure yede to the court of Rome,
And ever hopping about they nome;
Sunderlepes come they theder,
But they come never eft togeder.
Here clothes ne roted, ne nailes grewe,
Ne heer ne wax, ne solowed hewe,
Ne never hadde they amendement,
That we herde, at any corseint,
But at the virgine Saint Edight,
There was he botened, Teodright,
On oure Lady day, in lenten tide,
As he slepte her toumbe beside:
There he had his medicine
At Saint Edight, the holy virgìne.
Bruning the bishop of Saint Tolous
Wrote this tale so merveilous;
Sethe was his name of more renoun—
Men called him the pope Leoun.
This at the court of Rome they wite,
And in the kronikeles it is write
In many stedes beyond the see,
More than is in this cuntré.
Therfor men saye—and wel is trod—
‘The nere the cherche, the firther fro God’.