Classic Poem

Were beþ þey biforen us weren,
Houndes ladden and hauekes beren,
And hadden feld and wode?
þe riche levedies in hoere bour,
þat wereden gold in hoere tressour,
Wiþ hoere brigtte rode,

Eten and drounken and maden hem glad,
Hoere lif was al wiþ gamen ilad;
Men keneleden hem biforen.
þey beren hem wel swiþe heye,
And, in a twincling of on eye,
Hoere soules weren forloren.

Were is þat lawing and þat song,
þat trayling and þat proude gong,
þo hauekes and þo houndes?
Al þat joye is went away,
þat wele is comen te weylaway,
To manie harde stoundes.

Hoere paradis hy nomen here,
And now þey lien in helle ifere,
þe fuir hit brennes hevere:
Long is " ay" and long is " ho",
Long is " wy" and long is " wo";
þennes ne comeþ þey nevere.

Dregy here, man, þenne, if þou wilt
A luitel pine þat me þe bit,
Wiþdrau þine eyses ofte,
þey þy pine he ounrede;
And þou þenke on þi mede,
Hit sal þe þinken softe.

If þat fend, þat foule þing,
þorou wikke roun, þorou fals egging,
Neþere þe haveþ icast,
Oup and be god chaunpioun!
Stond, ne fal namore adoun
For a luytel blast.

þou tak þe rode to þi staf,
And þenk on him þat þereonne yaf
His lif þat wes so lef,
He it gaf for þe; þou yelde hit him,
Agein his fo þat staf þou nim,
And wrek him of þat þef.

Of rigtte bileve þou nim þat sheld
þe wiles þat þou best in þat feld
þin hond to strenkþen fonde;
And kep þy fo wiþ staves ord,
And do þat traytre seien þat word.
Biget þat murie londe

þereinne is day wiþhouten nigt
Wiþouten ende, strenkþe and migt,
And wreche of everich fo;
Mid God himselwen eche lif,
And pes and rest wiþoute strif,
Wele wiþouten wo.

Mayden, moder, hevene quene,
þou migt and const and owest to bene
Oure sheld agein þe fende;
Help ous sunne for to flen,
þat we moten þi sone iseen
In joye wiþouten hende. Amen.