Classic Poem

The Rote is ded, the Swanne is goone,
The firy Cressett hath lost his lyght;
Therfore Inglond may make gret mone,
Were not the helpe of Godde almyght.
The castelle is wonne where care begowne,
The Portecolys is leyde adowne;
Iclosid we have oure welevette hatte,
That keveryd us from mony stormys browne.
The White Lioun is leyde to slepe,
Thoroug the envy of the Ape clogge;
And he is bownden that oure dore shuld kepe,
That is Talbott oure goode dogge.
The Fisshere hathe lost his hangulhooke;
Gete theym agayne when it wolle be.
Oure Mylle-saylle wille not abowte,
Hit hath so longe goone emptye.
The Bere is bound that was so wild,
Ffor he hath lost his ragged staffe.
The Carte nathe is spokeles,
For the counseille that he gaffe.
The Lily is both faire and grene;
The Coundite rennyth not, as I wene.
The Cornysshe Chowgh offt with his trayne
Hath made oure Egulle blynde.
The White Harde is put out of mynde,
Because he wolle not to hem consent;
Therfore the commyns saith is both trew and kynde
Bothe in Southesex and in Kent.
The Water-Bowge and the Wyne-Botelle,
With the Vetturlockes cheyne bene fast.
The Whete-yere wolle theym susteyne
As longe as he may endure and last.
The Boore is farre into the west,
That shold us helpe with shilde and spere;
The Fawkoun fleyth, and hath no rest,
Tille he witte where to bigge his nest.