Classic Poem

Thou wommon boute fere
Thin owne fader bere.
Gret wonder this was
That on wommon was moder
To fader and hire brother,
So never other nas.

Thou my suster and moder
And thy sone my brother —
Who shulde thenne drede?
Whoso haveth the king to broder
And eek the quene to moder
Well aughte for to spede.

Dame, suster and moder,
Say thy sone, my brother,
That is domes-mon,
That for thee that him bere,
To me be debonere —
My robe he haveth opon.

Sethe he my robe tok,
Also ich finde in Bok,
He is to me ibounde;
And helpe he wole, ich wot,
For love the chartre wrot,
The enke om of his wounde.

Ich take to witnessinge
The spere and the crowninge,
The nailes and the rode,
That he that is so cunde
This ever haveth in munde,
That boughte us with his blode.

When thou geve him my wede,
Dame, help at the nede —
Ich wot thou might fol well,
That for no wreched gult
Ich be to helle ipult —
To thee ich make apel.

Now, Dame, ich thee biseche,
At thilke day of wreche
Be by thy sones trone,
When sunne shall ben sought
In werk, in word, in thought,
And spek for me, thou one.

When ich mot nede apere
For mine gultes here
Tofore the domes-mon,
Suster, be ther my fere
And make him debonere
That my robe haveth opon.

For habbe ich thee and him
That markes berth with him,
That charite him tok —
The woundes all blody,
The toknes of mercy,
Ase techeth Holy Bok —
Tharf me nothing drede;
Sathan shall nout spede
With wrenches ne with crok.